A    HARVEST    OF 
GERMAN  VERSE 


A  HARVEST  OF 
GERMAN  VERSE 


SELECTED  AND  TRANSLATED 
BY 

MARGARETE  MUNSTERBERG 


WITH   A   FOREWORD   BY 
KUNO  FRANCKE 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 

1916 


COPYBIOHT,   1916,   BT 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


A  number  of  poems  in  this  book  have  already  appeared 
in  "The  German  Classics,"  published  by  the  German 
Publication  Society  and  are  printed  here  with  its  permission. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


TT 


ES718 


TO 


MY  FATHER  AND  MOTHER 


f\^^».::f  ( 

*iorAA. 


A  new  anthology  of  German  lyric  verse  in  Eng- 
lish should  be  a  matter  of  rejoicing  to  those  who 
look  to  literature  for  revelation  of  national  feel- 
ing and  character.  For  of  all  forms  of  literature., 
lyric  poetry  has  revealed  German  national  charac- 
ter most  directly  and  fully. 

Surely,  there  have  been  great  manifestations  of 
the  German  spirit  in  the  epic  and  the  drama. 
Faithfulness  unto  death,  persistence  in  love  and 
hatred,  unflinching  courage,  and  grim  heroism  have 
seldom  been  brought  out  in  figures  as  grand  and 
impressive  as  the  colossal  figures  of  the  Nibelun- 
yenlied.  And  nowhere  is  there  to  be  found  a  finer 
embodiment  of  German  enlightenment  than  Nathan 
der  Weise,  of  German  earnestness  and  depth  than 
Wallenstein,  of  German  idealism  than  Iphigenie, 
or  of  the  German  striving  for  completeness  of  per- 
sonality than  Faust.  And  yet  it  must  be  said  that 
neither  the  German  epic  nor  the  German  drama, 
as  a  whole,  have  been  as  truly  typical  of  German 
character  as  the  bulk  of  German  lyrics  has  been. 

The  German  temper  is  essentially  lyric.  To 
live  himself  out,  to  give  rein  to  his  feelings,  to  revel 
in  vague  longings  for  an  ideal,  in  dim  divinations 
[vii] 


FOREWORD 


of  the  infinite,  or  in  the  intoxicating  raptures  of 
the  moment — all  this  is  natural  to  the  German. 
Nothing  appeals  less  to  him  than  the  petty  formal- 
ism of  correct  mediocrity;  if  he  submits  to  it,  he 
does  so  only  from  a  sense  of  duty  and  in  the  inter- 
est of  public  discipline  and  public  necessity.  Noth- 
ing appeals  more  to  him  than  the  expression  of  a 
bold,  unrestrained,  intense,  whole-souled  per- 
sonality. 

It  is  easy  to  see  why  a  people  of  such  a  type 
of  mind  should  have  found  in  lyric  poetry  the  most 
adequate  form  of  self-expression;  why,  next  to 
German  music,  German  lyrics  should  be  the  rich- 
est and  the  finest  revelation  of  the  German  soul. 
German  literature  and  art  have  not  infrequently 
been  lacking  in  plastic  power  and  in  sure  grasp  of 
form.  But  the  emotional  intensity  of  German 
lyrics  has  created  a  form  of  its  own,  more  elastic, 
more  varied,  of  stronger  spiritual  appeal,  of  higher 
imaginative  power  than  is  found  in  the  lyrics  of 
most  other  nations.  To  afford  glimpses  of  this  elu- 
sive and  enchanting  world  of  the  inner  life,  its 
struggles  and  its  joys,  its  hope  and  despair,  its 
triumphs  and  defeats,  and  its  invincible  trust  in  its 
own  higher  mission,  is  indeed  doing  a  service  to 
the  cause  of  the  spirit. 

KUNO  FRANCKE. 


[viii] 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I 
OLD  TIME 

ANONYMOUS   (12th  Century) 

I  Am  Thine 3 

SPERVOGEL   (1150) 

There  Is  a  House  in  Heaven     ....       4 

WALTER  VON  DER  VOGELWEIDE   (1170) 

Blessed   Be  the  Hour 5 

Longing  for  Spring  ....1.5 

The  Oracle 6 

From  "A  Dream  of  Love"  ....  7 
Under  the  Linden-tree  .....  7 
Give  Me  Welcome  All  with  Cheer  ...  8 

VON  KURENBERG  (1175) 

The   Falcon 11 

MARTIN  LUTHER  (1483) 

From  Heaven  High 12 

Song  of  Praise  ......     14 

NIKOLAUS  DECIUS  (1541) 

Lamb  of  God 16 

ANONYMOUS   (16th  Century) 

A  Lovely  Rose  .......     17 

FOLK  SONG  (16th  Century) 

I   Heard  a  Sickle  Rustling       .         .         .          .17 

POPULAR  BALLAD  (16th  Century) 

Would  I  Were  a  Falcon  Wild  .         .         .         .18 

FOLK  SONG  (16th  Century) 

Innsbruck,  I  Must  Be  Leaving  .         .         .         .20 
[ix] 


CONTENTS 


FOLK  SONG  (16th  Century) 

As  Many  as  Sand-grains  in  the  Sea  .  .  .21 
MARTIN  RINCKART  (1586) 

Now  Let  Us  All  Thank  God  .  .  .  .22 
PAULUS  GERHARDT  (1607) 

To  the  Face  of  the  Lord  Jesus  .         .         .         .23 

Go  Out,  My  Heart 25 

CATHOLIC  CHURCH  SONG  (1638) 

Harvest   Song    .......     28 

ANDREAS  GRYPHIUS  (1616) 

Sonnet  on  the  Transitoriness  of  Life  .  .  30 
ANGELUS  SILESIUS  (1624) 

Vow 31 

JOACHIM  NEANDER  (1650) 

Praise  the  Lord  God 34 

CHRISTIAN  FURCHTEGOTT  GELLERT  (1715) 

The  Blind  and  the  Lame 36 

FRIEDRICH  GOTTLOB  KLOPSTOCK  (1724) 

The  Early  Graves 38 

MATTHIAS  CLAUDIUS  (1740) 

Evening  Song     .......     39 

FOLK  SONG  (18th  Century) 

Were  I  a  Little  Bird 41 

HUMOROUS  BALLAD  (End  of  18th  Century) 

The  Tailor  in  Hell 42 

ALSATIAN  SOLDIER  SONG  (1784) 

The  Swiss 45 

BOOK  II 
CLASSIC  TIME 

JOHANN  WOLFGANG  VON  GOETHE  (1749) 

To  the  Moon 49 

Wanderer's  Night  Songs  I  &  II         .         .         .50 
Dear  Children,  Soon  I'll  Come  Again!       .         .     51 

[x] 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Mignon      ........  51 

Song  of  the  Harper  ......  52 

The  Harper 53 

King  in  Thule 53 

Gretchen's  Song          ......  54 

Gretchen 56 

P'ound        ........  57 

Wild  Rose 58 

The  Fisher 59 

The  Alderking 60 

The  Singer 62 

The  Wizard's  Apprentice  .          .         .          .          .63 
FRIEDRICH  VOX  SCHILLER  (1759) 

The  Song  of  the  Bell 68 

BOOK  III 
ROMANTIC  TIME 

ERNST  MORITZ  ARNDT  (1769) 

Union  Song       .......     85 

NOVALIS  (1772) 

Ah,  When  He  Is  Mine 87 

ADALBERT  VON   CHAMISSO    (1781) 

From  "Woman's  Love  and  Life"  I   .          .          .89 
From  "Woman's  Love  and  Life"  II  .          .          .90 

MAX  VON  SCHENKENDORF  (1783) 

Freedom    ........     91 

LUDWIG  UHLAND  (1787) 

The    Hostess'    Daughter 94 

The  Good  Comrade 95 

The  Nun 95 

The  Minstrel's  Curse 96 

King  Charles'  Voyage        .....   101 

Suabian  Legend 103 

Free  Art 105 

[xi] 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

JOSEPH  VON  EICHENDORFF  (1788) 

In  a  Cool  Green  Valley     .....  107 

The  Last  Greeting 108 

On  the  Death  of  My  Child         .         .         .         .109 
Longing 109 

FRIEDRICH  RUCKERT  (1789) 

Ecstasy Ill 

Chidher Ill 

WILHELM  HEY  (1790) 

Say,  How  Many  Stars  Are  Glowing  .         .         .114 

THEODOR  KORNER  (1791) 

Father,  I  Call  Thee! 115 

WILHELM  MULLER  (1794) 

Vineta 117 

AUGUST,  GRAF  VON  PLATEN  (1796) 

Sonnet 119 

ANNETTE  FREUN  VON  DROSTE-HULSHOFF 

(1797) 
Last  Words 120 

HEINRICH     HOFFMAN    VON    FALLERSLE- 
BEN  (1798) 
German  Land  Above  All  Others       .         .         .  121 

LUISE  HENSEL   (1798) 

Prayer 123 

HEINRICH  HEINE  (1799) 

Thou  Seemest  Like  a  Flower  ....  124 
I  Dreamed  a  Princess  Came  to  Me  .         .         .  124 

The  Lotos  Flower 125 

Fir-tree 125 

I  Bear  No  Anger 126 

The  Rock  with  Runes 126 

On  Wings  of  Song 126 

The  Loreley 127 

Two  Grenadiers 128 

[xH] 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

WILHELM  HAUFF  (1802) 

Morning  Glow 131 

NIKOLAUS  LENAU  (1802) 

Marsh  Song 133 

The  Postillion 133 

JOHANN  NEPOMUK  VOGL  (1802) 

The  Recognition 137 

EDUARD  MORIKE  (1804) 

The  Forsaken  Maiden 139 

ERNST  VON  FEUCHTERSLEBEN  (1806) 

It  Has  Been  Willed  in  God's  Decree  .  .  140 


BOOK  IV 
MODERN  TIME 

FERDINAND  FREILIGRATH  (1810) 

The  Duration  of  Love 143 

EMANUEL  GEIBEL   (1815) 

Wanderer's  Joy          ......   145 

Evening     ........   146 

THEODOR  STORM  (1817) 

The  City   .          .         .         .  .         .          .147 

The  Heath 147 

In  the  Wood 148 

Elisabeth's  Song 149 

To  a  Deceased  .......   150 

FRIEDRICH  VON  BODENSTEDT  (1819) 

The  Rose  Complained 151 

THEODOR  FONTANE   (1819) 

Sir  Ribbeck  of  Ribbeck 152 

The  Bridge  by  the  Tay 153 

GOTTFRIED  KELLER  (1819) 

Song  of  the  Evening         .....   157 

Winter  Night 158 

Summer  Night  .......  158 

[xiii] 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

KONRAD  FERDINAND  MEYER  (1825) 

But  the  Sun  Is  Ever  Youthful  .         .         .         .160 

Do  Thou  Speak  Now 160 

Christmas  in  Ajaccio           .....  161 

The  Dead  Child 162 

Schiller's  Burial 162 

JOSEPH  VICTOR  VON  SCHEFFEL  (1826) 

Old  Heidelberg 164 

HEINRICH  LEUTHOLD   (1827) 

The  Forest  Lake 165 

FERDINAND  VON  SAAR  (1833) 

Girls  Singing 166 

WILHELM  JENSEN  (1837) 

Letters  from  the  Beloved  .....  167 

JOSEPH  VICTOR  WIDMANN   (1842) 

Prologue  to  "May-Beetle's  Comedy"  .          .          .  168 

Song  of  the  Blue  Thrush 169 

DETLEV  VON  LILIENCRON  (1844) 

Parting  and  Return  I         .          .          .          .          .172 

Parting  and  Return   II 173 

War  and  Peace 173 

BOOK  V 
OUR  TIME 

CARL  SPITTELER  (1845) 

The  Bell .  179 

PRINCE   EMIL  VON  SHONAICH-CAROLATH 
(1852) 

Oh,  Germany! 180 

GUSTAV  FALKE  (1853) 

A   Day  Spent 182 

When  I  Die .182 

ISOLDE  KURZ  (1853) 

Nekropolis 184 

[xiv] 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

LUDWIG  FULDA  (1862) 

In  the  Express  Train 186 

ARNO  HOLZ   (1863) 

Like  One  of  These  Was  He  .         .         .188 

HUGO  TERBERG  (1863) 

On  the  Death  of  a  Child 190 

RICHARD  DEHMEL   (1863) 

Voice  in  Darkness     ......   192 

Through  the  Night 192 

From   an   Oppressed   Heart        ....   193 

Many  a  Night 193 

Wave  Dance  Song     .          .          .          .          .          .194 

The  Workman 195 

Song  for  AH 195 

RICARDA  HUCH  (1864) 

Midnight 197 

OTTO  JULIUS  BIERBAUM  (1865) 

Enough 199 

STEFAN   GEORGE    (1868) 

The  Vigil 200 

The  Shepherd's  Day 202 

LULU  VON  STRAUSS  UND  TORNEY  (18T3) 

The  Seafarer 204 

BORRIES  FREIHERR  VON  MUNCHHAUSEN 
(1874) 

Ballad  of  the  Wall 209 

Mine  Own  Land 213 

Fairy  Tale 214 

HUGO  VON  HOFMANNSTHAL  (1874) 

Ballad  of  the  Outer  Life 215 

RAINER  MARIA  RILKE  (1875) 

Remembrance     .......  217 

People  at  Night 217 

Glimpse  of  a  Childhood 218 

Growing  Blind 219 

[xv] 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Moonlight  Night 220 

The  Knight 220 

Maiden  Melancholy    ......  221 

Autumn  Day     .......  222 

Autumn 222 

The  Last  Supper 2123 

From  the  "Book  of  the  Monk's  Life"  I     .         .223 
From  the  "Book  of  the  Monk's  Life"  II     .         .  224 

HERMANN  HESSE  (1877) 

In  the  Fog 226 

Talk  in  a  Gondola 227 

ALFRED  WALTER  VON  HEYMEL  (1878) 

Song  of  an  Enamoured  Prince  ....  229 

AGNES  MIEGEL  (1879) 

The  Fair  Agnete 231 

H.  ZUCKERMANN 

Austrian  Cavalry  Song  (1914)  .         .         .         .233 

REINHOLD  S.  (1903) 

For  Us!   (1915)         .         .         .  .         .234 

INDEX  OF  TITLES 235 

INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  .  240 


[xvi] 


BOOK  I 
OLD  TIME 


ANONYMOUS 

Twelfth  century 

I  am  thine,  thou  art  mine, 

And  this  shall  be  a  sure  sign; 

Locked  fast  thou  art 

Within  my  heart, 

And  lost  forever  is  the  key ; 

So  thou  inside  must  ever  be. 


SPERVOGEL 
1150-1200 

There  is   a  house  in  heaven,  they  say; 

You  reach  it  by  a  golden  way. 

The  pillars  are  of  marble  white; 

The  noblest  jewels  gleaming  bright 

The  Lord  has  laid  within. 

No  soul  may  enter  there  by  right 

That  is  not  free  from  sin. 


WALTER   VON   DER   VOGELWEIDE 

1170-1228 

Blessed  Be  the  Hour 

Blessed  be  the  hour  when  first  I  knew  her, 
Her  who  with  heart  and  soul  did  rout  me; 
When  all  my  senses  were  aroused  to  woo  her, 
I  felt  her  goodness  hover  all  about  me. 
And  now  I  cannot  part  from  her  again, 
Because  her  beauty  and  kindness  delight  me, 
And  her  red,  red  mouth  that  laughs  so  brightly. 

My  heart  and  mind  I  have  been  turning 

Unto  the  pure  one,  the  good  one,  the  dear  one. 

Ah,  could  I  but  fulfill  my  yearning: 

I  trust  to  her  mercy  that  she  will  hear  one. 

All  my  joy  on  earth  doth  come  from  her, 

Because  her  beauty  and  kindness  delight  me, 

And  her  red,  red  mouth  that  laughs  so  brightly. 

Longing  for  Spring 

Alas,  the  winter  has  hurt  us  everywhere. 
The  forest  and  the  heath  are  both  so  bare, 
5 


OLD  TIME 


Where  many  a  sweet  voice  resounded  through  the 

air. 

Ah,  if  on  the  street  I  saw  the  maidens  fair 
Play  ball,  the  songs  of  birds  would  be  there. 

I  should  like  to  sleep  through  winter's  delay. 
Jealous  I  grow  when  awake  I  stay, 
Because  the  winter  has  such  a  mighty  sway. 
God  knows  at  last  he  yields  unto  May, 
Where  the  frost  lies  now,  I'll  pluck  a  nosegay. 

The  Oracle 

Beset  with  doubts,  in  agony 
I  sat  quite  long  alone  and  thought 
How  from  her  service  I  might  be  free, 
Until  a  comfort  gladness  brought. 
This  thing  a  comfort  I  can  hardly  call, 
"Pis  scarce  a  baby  comfort — oh,  so  small ! 
And  if  I  tell  you,  you'll  be  mocking  me : 
Yet  without  cause  no  one  can  happy  be. 

A  little  stalk  has  made  me  glad  to-day ; 

It  promised  happiness  I  never  knew: 

I  measured  with  a  stalk  of  straw  in  play, 

As  I  had  often  seen  the  children  do. 

Now  listen,  if  her  heart  my  love  has  heeded : 

"She    loves — loves    not — she    loves !"     Which 

way  my  hands  would  bend, 
"She  loves  me !"  always  was  the  end. 
So  I  am  happy ;  only — faith  is  needed ! 
6 


WALTER  VON  DER  VOGELWEIDE 


From  "A  Dream  of  Love" 

Look,  this  is  why  I  feel  so  gay: 

I  have  grown  warm  with  cheer, 

Clasped  by  a  dream  so  dear. 

Alas,  I  had  to  wake,  for  it  was  day. 

Hear  what  she  has  done  unto  me: 

All  the  summer  I  must  peer 

Into  ladies'  eyes  to  see 

If  I  can  find  my  dear:  then  sorrow's  end  were  near. 

Maybe  she  is  going  to  this  dance. 

Ladies,  I  beg  you,  be  so  kind, 

Push  back  your  hats,  if  you  don't  mind ! 

If  I  should  find  her  'neath  this  wreath  by  chance! 

Under  tlw  Linden-tree 

Under  the  linden-tree 

Upon  the  heath, 

There  I  lay  with  him. — Alas, 

When  you  go  there,  you'll  see 

The  flowers  beneath 

Crushed  and  trodden  with  the  grass. 

By  the  forest  in  the  dale, 

Tandarady ! 

Sweetly  sang  the  nightingale. 

I  strolled  unto  the  green: 
My  lover  true 
7 


OLD  TIME 


Was  waiting  there  impatiently. 

Such  welcome  ne'er  was  seen — 

Ah,  if  you  knew! 

My  heart  still  throbs  in  ecstasy. 

Kisses  ? — Thousands — more ! — he  took : 

Tandarady ! 

See,  how  red  my  lips  now  look ! 

How  he   caressed  me   there, 

If  anyone 

Should  know :  alas,  how  I  should  blush ! 

And  all  our  pastime  fair ! 

Ah,  none,  none,  none 

Shall  know,  but  he  and  I — hush, 

hush ! — 

And  the  birdie  on  the  tree. 
Tandarady ! 
May  that  ever  silent  be! 

Give  Me  Welcome  All  with  Cheer 

Give  me  welcome  all  with  cheer ! 
Harken,  what  my  tidings  fair  shall  be. 
All  that  you  were  wont  to  hear 
Is  a  very  trifle:  now  ask  me. 
But  give  me  my  reward! 
Then,  if  that  be  good, 

I  shall  tell  what  you  will  hear  with  joyful  mood. 
Take  care,  and  honours  fit  accord! 
8 


WALTER  VON  DER  VOGELWEIDE 

To  German  ladies  I  shall  say 

Such  happy  tidings  as  will  please  them  well, 

And  bring  the  world  beneath  their  sway; 

For  no  great  thanks  my  tale  I'll  tell. 

Ah,  what  should  I  ask? 

They're  too  great,  I  find. 

So  I  am  but  modest,  pray  that  they  be  kind: 

Gracious  welcome  be  their  task. 

In  many  countries  I  have  fared, 

I  have  seen  the  best  with  eager  eye. 

Woe  betide  me  if  I  dared 

Force  my  heart  that  it  should  ever  try 

Other  lands  to  love 

For  their  foreign  ways. 

Should   I  lie,  what  profit  were   false  praise? 

German  manners   all  above ! 

From  the  Elbe  to  the  Rhine, 

Back  unto  Hungarian  ground, 

There,  I  wot,  the  noblest  shine 

That  upon  the  world  are  found. 

If  looks  and  bearings  fair 

My  eyes  can  judge  aright, 

Any  woman  here  surpasses  in  my  sight 

High-born  ladies  fine  elsewhere ! 

German  men  are  nobly  bred, 
Angels  are  the  women  of  the  land. 
He  who  chides  them  is  misled. 
9 


OLD  TIME 


Other  truth  I  cannot  understand. 

He  who  on  his  way 

Seeketh  virtue,  loving  chaste, 

Come  into  our  land,  for  there  is  joy  to  waste. 

May  I  live  there  long,  I  pray! 


10 


VON  KURENBERG 
About  1175 

The  Falcon 

I  raised  a  noble  falcon 
For  more  than  a  year; 
And  when  I  had  tamed  him 
And  decked  his  feathers,  tying 
Them  with  a  golden  band, 
He  rose  so  swiftly,  flying 
Far  to  another  land. 

Since  then  I've  seen  my  falcon 

Gaily  soaring; 

And  from  his  feet  were  waving 

Fair  silken  ribbons, 

And  on  his  wings  each  feather 

Was  ruddy  gold  to  see; 

Ah,  God  bring  those  together 

Who  lovers  fain  would  be ! 


11 


MARTIN  LUTHER 
Born   1483   in  Eisleben.     Died   1546  in  Eisleben 

From  Heaven  High 

From  heaven  high  I  come  to  you, 
And  bring  you  tidings  good  and  new. 
So  many  tidings  good  I  bring, 
Thereof  I  want  to  say  and  sing: 

For  you  to-day  is  born  a  child, 
E'en  from  a  chosen  virgin  mild, 
A  child  so  fair  and  fine  a  sight, 
To  be  your  joy  and  your  delight. 

'Tis  our  Lord  Christ  and  He  will  lead 
You  out  of  danger,  out  of  need; 
Your  Saviour  He  Himself  will  be, 
From  all  your  sins  to  make  you  free. 

He  comes  with  all  the  blessings  fraught 
That  He  from  God  on  high  has  brought; 
With  us  in  heaven  you  shall  stay, 
Now  and  forever  and  a  day. 

Now  mark  the  signs :  the  manger  old, 
The  swaddling-clothes  so  plain !   Behold : 
12 


MARTIN  LUTHER 


There  lies  the  child  in  lowly  state, 

Who  lights  the  world  and  bears  its  weight. 

Mark  well,  my  heart,  and  open,  eyes: 
See  what  in  yonder  manger  lies ! 
Whose  is  this  lovely  infant  here? 
It  is  the  little  Jesus  dear. 

I  welcome  Thee,  my  noble  guest, 
Who  to  the  sinner  givest  rest. 
Thou  earnest  here  in  misery. 
Oh,  let  me  thank  Thee  ardently ! 

Creator,  Lord,  of  all  things  known, 
How  poor  and  lowly  art  thou  grown, 
That  Thou  on  hay  and  straw  must  lie, 
With  mules  and  cattle  feeding  by ! 

And  should  the  world  still  greater  be, 
And  gleam  with  jewels  gorgeously, 
Yet  it  would  be  far,  far  too  small 
To  be  Thy  cradle,  Lord,  at  all. 

Thy  velvet  and  Thy  silk  display 
Is  swaddling-clothes  and  coarsest  hay; 
And  there,  O  King  so  rich  and  great, 
As  if  in  Heaven,  Thou  dwellst  in  state. 

I  know  right  well  it  pleases  Thee 
To  show  Thy  saving  truth  to  me, 
13 


OLD  TIME 


How  worldly  honour,  goods  and  might 
Are  all  as  nothing  in  Thy  sight. 

Heart's  dearest  Jesus,  with  Thy  grace, 
Make  Thee  a  smooth,  white  resting-place 
Which  deep  within  my  heart  shall  be, 
That  I  may  e'er  remember  Thee, 

That  I  a  merry  heart  may  keep, 
And  ever  freely  sing  and  leap, 
Aye,  sing  a  lovely  lullaby, 
With  dulcet  voice  and  spirits  high. 

Praise  be  to  God  upon  His  throne, 
Who  gave  to  us  His  son,  His  own. 
Rejoicing  soars  the  angel  throng, 
And  greets  the  New  Year  with  its  song. 

Song  of  Praise 

Be  praised,  Christ  Jesus,  fervently, 
For  Thou  a  man  hast  deigned  to  be, 
Born  of  a  virgin:  evermore 
The  angel  hosts  rejoicing  soar. 
Kyrieleis ! 

The  everlasting  Father's  Son 
There  in  the  manger  lies — the  One. 
Disguised  in  our  poor  flesh  and  blood, 
There  lies  the  world's  eternal  Good. 
Kyrieleis ! 
14 


MARTIN  LUTHER 


In  Mary's  lap  He  can  repose 
Whom  the  world's  sphere  cannot  enclose; 
There  as  a  little  child  is  known 
He  who  upholds  all  things  alone. 
Kyrieleis ! 

See  the  eternal  glory  stream 
And  give  the  world  a  bright,  new  gleam. 
It  shines  in  darkest,  deepest  night, 
And  makes  us  children  of  the  light. 
Kyrieleis ! 

The   Father's    Son,   of   God-like   kind, 
A  guest  in  this  poor  world  we  find; 
He  leads  us  from  this  vale  of  woe, 
As  heirs  into  His  realm  to  go. 
Kyrieleis ! 

And  poor  He  came  upon  this  earth, 
In  pity  for  our  lack  and  dearth, 
That  we  in  heaven  be  rich  through  Him, 
And  like  His  blessed  cherubim. 
Kyrieleis ! 

All  this  He  hath  done  unto  us, 
To  show  His  love  so  marvellous. 
So  let  all  Christians  happy  be, 
And  thank  Him  in  eternity. 
Kyrieleis ! 


15 


NIKOLAUS  DECIUS 
Died  1541 

Lamb  of  God,  innocent 
Slaughtered  upon  the  Tree, 
With  patience  never  spent, 
Though  scorned  so  cruelly: 
All  sin,  Thou,  Lord,  dost  bear, 
Else  we  must  all  despair. 
Have  mercy  on  us,  Jesus! 


16 


ANONYMOUS 

Songs  of  sixteenth  century 

A  Lovely  Rose  Is  Sprung 

A  lovely  rose  is  sprung, 

Out  of  a  tender  root, 

As  men  of  old  have  sung, 

From  Jesse's  stem  a  shoot. 

And  so  a  flower  bright 

Has  bloomed  in  coldest  winter 

E'en  in  the  deepest  night. 

The  little  rose  I  mean 
Whereof  Isaiah  told, 
Pure  Mary,  maid  serene 
Brought  forth  alone — behold: 
Through  God's  eternal  might 
A  little  child  she  bore  us 
E'en  in  the  deepest  night. 

Folk  Song 

I  heard  a  sickle  rustling, 
A-rustling  through  the  grain, 
I  heard  a  maid  lamenting, 
That  she  had  lost  her  swain. 
17 


OLD  TIME 


"Dear,  let  it  rustle,  rustle! 
I  heed  not,  how  it  goes: 
For  I  have  won  a  lover, 
Where  the  green  clover  grows." 

"And  hast  thou  won  a  lover, 
Where  thyme  and  clover  grow: 
Then  I  stand  here  so  lonely, 
My  heart  is  sore  with  woe !" 

Popular  Ballad 

Would  I  were  a  falcon  wild, 
I  should  spread  my  wings  and  soar, 
Then  I  should  come  swooping  down 
By  a  wealthy  burgher's  door. 

In  his  house  there  dwells  a  maid, 
She  is  called  fair  Magdalene, 
And  a  fairer  damsel  brown 
All  my  days  I  have  not  seen. 

On  a  Monday  morning  early, 
Monday  morning,  they  relate, 
Magdalene  was  seen  a-walking 
Through  the  city's  northern  gate. 

Then  the  maidens  said:    "Thy  pardon- 
Magdalene,  where  wouldst  thou  go?" 
— "Oh,  into  my  father's  garden, 
Where  I  went  last  night,  you  know." 
18 


ANONYMOUS 


And  when  she  to  the  garden  came, 
And  straight  into  the  garden  ran, 
There  lay  beneath  the  linden-tree 
Asleep,  a  beautiful  young  man. 

"Wake  up,  young  man,  be  stirring, 
Oh  rise,  for  time  is  dear, 
I  hear  the  keys  a-rattling, 
And  mother  will  be  here." 

"Hear'st  thou  her  keys  a-rattling, 
And  thy  mother  must  be  nigh, 
Then  o'er  the  heath  this  minute 
Oh,  come  with  me,  and  fly!" 

And  as  they  wandered  o'er  the  heath, 
There  for  these  twain  was  spread, 
A  shady  linden-tree  beneath, 
A  silken  bridal-bed. 

And  three  half-hours  together, 

They  lay  upon  the  bed. 

"Turn  round,  turn  round,  brown  maiden: 

Give  me  thy  mouth  so  red !" 

"Thou  say'st  so  much  of  turning  round, 
But  naught  of  wedded  troth, 
I  fear  me  I  have  slept  away 
My  faith  and  honour  both." 
19 


OLD  TIME 


"And  fear'st  thou,  thou  hast  slept  away 
Thy  faith  and  honour  too, 
I  say  I'll  wed  thee  yet,  my  dear, 
So  thou  shalt  never  rue." 

Who  was  it  sang  this  little  lay, 
And  sang  it  o'er  with  cheer? 
On  St.  Annenberg  in  the  town, 
It  was  the  mountaineer. 

He  sang  it  there  right  gaily 
Drank  mead  and  cool  red  wine, 
Beside  him  sat  and  listened 
Three  dainty  damsels  fine. 

Folk  Song 

Innsbruck,  I  must  be  leaving, 
And  go  my  way  with  grieving 
In  foreign  lands,  alack ! 
My  joy  has  all  been  taken, 
A  stranger  and  forsaken, 
I  cannot  call  it  back. 

Great  pain  my  life  must  darken, 
And  thou  alone  must  hearken 
To  my  lamenting,  dear. 
Into  thy  heart,  oh,  take  me, 
There  warm  with  kindness  make  me, 
When  I  am  far  from  here. 
20 


ANONYMOUS 


Oh,  thou  most  comfort-spending, 
My  love  shall  be  unending, 
Staunch,  true,  without  a  stain. 
God  keep  thee  with  His  guiding, 
Thy  virtues  be  abiding, 
Until  I  come  again. 

Folk  Song 

As  many  as  sand-grains  in  the  sea, 

As  many  as  stars  in  heaven  be, 

As  many  as  beasts  that  dwell  in  fields, 

As  many  as  pence  that  money  yields, 

As  much  as  blood  in  veins  will  flow, 

As  much  as  heat  in  fire  will  glow, 

As  much  as  leaves  in  woods  are  seen 

And  little  blades  of  grass  in  green, 

As  many  as  thorns  that  prick  on  hedges, 

As  grains  of  wheat  that  harvest  pledges, 

As  much  as  clover  in  meadows  fair, 

As  dust  a-flying  in  the  air, 

As  many  as  fish  in  streams  are  found 

And  shells  upon  the  ocean's  ground, 

And  drops  that  in  the  sea  must  go, 

As  many  as  flakes  that  shine  in  snow  — 

As    much,    as    manifold    as    life    abounds    about, 

abroad, 
So  much,  so  many  times  forever  we  must  thank 

our  God. 


21 


MARTIN  RINCKART 
Born  1586.     Died  1649  in  Eilenburg. 


Now  let  us  all  thank  God  with  heart  and  lips  and 
hands, 

Who  doth  great  things  to  us  and  men  in  all  the 
lands, 

Who  from  the  mother's  womb  and  tender  child- 
hood days 

Hath  done  us  too  much  good,  whose  kindness  ever 
stays. 

From  His  eternal  store  may  God,  the  while  we  live, 
An  ever  thankful  heart  and  peaceful  spirit  give, 
May  He  forevermore  with  His  great  mercy  bless 
And  keep  us  everywhere  and  save  us  from  distress. 

Praise,  honour,  glory  be  to  God  the  Father,  Son 
And  Him  who  is  like  both  in  Heaven — the  three 

times   One, 

As  He  was  from  the  first  and  as  He  is  to-day, 
And  as  He  will  remain  forever  and  for  aye. 


22 


PAULUS  GERHARDT 
Born  1607  near  Wittenberg.  Died  1676  in  Liibben 


Oh,  wounded  head  and  bleeding, 
By  pain  and  scorn  bowed  down ! 
Oh  head,  the  gibes  unheeding, 
Bound  with  a  thorny  crown ! 
Oh  head,  once  decorated 
With  honours  gloriously, 
Now  tortured  so  and  hated, 
I  greet  and  worship  Thee ! 

The  pain  Thou  hast  been  winning 
Should  all  my  burden  be: 
'Tis  all  through  my  own  sinning — 
The  torture  borne  by   Thee. 
Look,  here  I  stand  before  Thee, 
A  sinner  in  his  plight; 
Forgive  me,   I   implore   Thee, 
Grant  me  Thy  mercy's  light. 

Undaunted   I   stand  by  Thee. 
Lord,  my  repentance  take ! 
I'll  tarry  when  they  try  Thee, 
23 


OLD  TIME 


And  when  Thy  heart  must  break; 
When  death  at  last  doth  hold  Thee, 
And  makes  Thy  face  turn  white, 
My  loving  arms  shall  fold  Thee, 
Upbear  Thee  in  Thy  plight. 

This  is  my  consolation, 
And  gives  me  joy  fulness: 
Myself  and  my  salvation 
I  find  in  Thy  distress. 
Ah,  fain  I  would  be  leaving 
My  life  upon  Thy  tree. 
Thou  art  my  life:  no  grieving, 
But  sweetness  that  would  be ! 

I  thank  Thee  in  my  blindness, 
Oh  Jesus,  dearest  friend, 
For  Thy  good-will  and  kindness, 
Thy  suffering  to  the  end. 
Oh,  let  me  not  forsake  Thee, 
Not  Thee,  Thou  Faithful  One, 
When  death  shall  overtake  me, 
My  life  in  Thine  be  done. 

Draw  nigh,  Thy  servant  shielding, 
A  comfort  in  my  death, 
Let  me  behold  Thee,  yielding 
Upon  the  cross  Thy  breath: 
Aye,  long  I  will  behold  Thee, 
Faith  in  my  soul  shall  dwell, 
24 


PAULUS  GERHARDT 


When  to  my  heart  I  fold  Thee: 
Who  thus  may  die,  dies  well. 

Go  Out,  My  Heart 

Go  out,  my  heart,  and  seek  delight, 
In  this  dear  summer  time  so  bright, 
In  God's  abundance  daily; 
The  beauty  of  these  gardens  see, 
And  look,  how  they  for  me  and  thee 
Have  decked  themselves  so  gaily. 

The  trees  with  spreading  leaves  are  blessed, 

The  earth  her  dusty  rind  has  dressed 

In  green  so  young  and  tender. 

Narcissus  and  the  tulip  fair 

Are  clothed  in  raiment  far  more  rare 

Than  Solomon  in  splendour. 

The  larks  soar  high  and  higher  rise, 
And  from  her  cave  the  pigeon  flies, 
Into  the  forest  winging. 
The  most  accomplished  nightingale 
Fills  mountain,  meadow,  hill  and  dale 
With  sweetness  of  her  singing. 

The  hens  with  all  their  chickens  stride, 
The  stork  has  built  her  nest  with  pride, 
Her  young  the  swallow's  feeding. 
The  nimble  hart,  the  deer  so  light 
25 


OLD  TIME 


Rejoice,  and,  leaping  from  their  height, 
Into  the  grass  come  speeding. 

Fast  grows  the  wheat,  like  waving  gold, 
And  gives  delight  to  young  and  old; 
They  praise  with  glad  thanksgiving 
Him,  who  through  mercy  measureless 
Vouchsafed  the  soul  of  man  to  bless 
With  goods  that  grace  his  living. 

I,  too,  cannot  and  will  not  rest, 
My  senses  all  awake  with  zest, 
The  Lord's  great  goodness  knowing; 
I  sing  when  all  sings  round  about, 
And  praises  of  the  Lord,  devout 
Out  of  my  heart  are  flowing. 

Thy  splendour  here  doth  shine  so  bright, 
And  lets  us  feel  so  much  delight, 
While  on  poor  earth  abiding: 
What  blessings  may  hereafter  be, 
For  those  that  heaven's  glory  see, 
In  golden  halls  residing? 

Ah,  what  a  lucid  light  divine 
In  Christ's   fair  garden  then  will  shine! 
What  music  will  be  ringing, 
With  many  thousand  Seraphim 
Of  never-weary  lips,  to  Him 
Their  Alleluiahs  singing ! 
26 


PAULUS  GERHARDT 


Would  I  were  there !    Oh,  if  I  stood 
Before  Thy  throne — Thou  highest  Good!- 
My  palms  most  humbly  raising! 
Then,  like  the  angels  worshipping, 
A  thousand  noble  psalms  I'd  sing, 
Thy  name  forever  praising. 

Yet  I  shall  never  silent  stay, 
While  here  upon  my  earthly  way 
This  yoke  of  flesh  I'm  bearing. 
My  heart  shall  sing  unceasingly 
Here  and  wherever  I  may  be, 
Thy  praises  never  sparing. 

Help  Thou  my  spirit,  let  it  grow 

With  blessings  that  from  heaven  flow, 

To  bloom  for  Thine  adorning. 

And  may  Thy  mercy's  summer  heat 

Raise  fruits  of  faith,  all  ripe  and  sweet, 

Till  eve  from  early  morning. 

Oh,  choose  me  for  Thy  Paradise, 
Let  soul  and  body,  till  I  rise, 
Still  flourish,  tiring  never. 
By  Thee  alone  I  shall  abide, 
Thine  honour  serve,  and  none  beside, 
Both  here  and  there  forever. 


27 


CATHOLIC   CHURCH   SONG 
1638 

Harvest  Song 

There  is  a  reaper,  Death  his  name; 
His  might  from  God  the  highest  came. 
To-day  his  knife  he'll  whet, 
'Twill  cut  far  better  yet; 
Soon  he  will  come  and  mow, 
And  we  must  bear  the  woe — 
Beware,  fair  flower! 

The  flowers  fresh  and  green  to-day, 
To-morrow  will  be  mowed  away: 
Narcissus  so  white, 
The  meadows'  delight, 
The  hyacinthias  pale 
And  morning-glories  frail. 
Beware,  fair  flower! 

Full  many  thousand  blossoms  blithe 
Must  fall  beneath  his  deadly  scythe: 
Roses  and  lilies  pure, 
Your  end  is  all  too  sure ! 
Imperial  lilies  rare 

28 


CATHOLIC  CHURCH  SONG 

He  will  not  spare. 
Beware,  fair  flower ! 

The  bluet  wee,  of  heaven's  hue, 
The  tulips  white  and  yellow  too, 
The  dainty  silver  bell, 
The  golden  phlox  as  well — 
All  sink  upon  the  earth. 
Oh,  what  a  sorry  dearth ! 
Beware,  fair  flower ! 

Sweet  lavender  of  lovely  scent, 
And  rosemary,  dear  ornament, 
Sword-lilies  proud,  unfurled, 
And  basil,  quaintly  curled, 
And  fragile  violet  blue, 
He  soon  will  seize  you  too ! 
Beware,  fair  flower ! 

Death,  I  defy  thee:  hasten  near 
With  one  great  sweep — I  have  no  fear! 
Though  hurt,  I'll  stay  undaunted, 
For  I  shall  be  transplanted 
Into  the  garden  by  heaven's  gate, 
The  heavenly  garden  we  all  await. 
Rejoice,  fair  flower! 


ANDREAS  GRYPHIUS 
Born  1616  in  Glogau.     Died  1664  in  Glogau 

Sonnet  On  the  Transitoriness  of  Life 

You  see,  where'er  you  look,  but  vanity  on  earth: 
To-morrow  they'll  tear  down  what  we  have  built 

to-day, 
And    peaceful    herds    will    graze    and    shepherds' 

children  play 
On  fields  where  now  the  lively  cities  boast  their 

worth. 

All  that  is  blooming  now  must  lie  in  sorry  dearth; 
The  hearts  that  beat  in  pride  will  turn  to  ashes 

grey- 
No  marble  and  no  ore,  nay,  nothing  here  can  stay. 
Now  happiness  may  smile   before  some  sorrow's 

birth. 

The  glory  of  high  deeds  must  vanish  like  a  dream. 
Oh,  how  can  man  withstand  the  flow  of  time's  fleet 

stream  ? 
Yea,  what  is  all  that  we  have  deemed  so  wondrous 

great, 

But  worthless  trifles,  only  shadows,  wind  and  dust, 
A  flower  of  the  field,  that  on  the  road  is  thrust. 
And  yet  eternal  things  man  will  not  contemplate. 
30 


ANGELUS  SILESIUS 

(Pseud,  for  JOHANNES  SCHEFFLER) 

Born  1624  in  Breslau.     Died  1677  in  Breslau 

Vow 

I  want  to  love  Thee,  strength  divine, 
I  want  to  love  Thee,  holy  grace, 
With  works  I  offer  at  Thy  shrine, 
With  longings  time  cannot  efface. 
I  want  to  love  Thee,  fairest  light, 
Till  my  heart's  night. 

I  want  to  love  Thee,  love  Thee  so 
As  I  would  love  my  dearest  friend; 
And,  basking  in  Thy  beauty's  glow, 
I'll  love  and  praise  Thee  without  end. 
Oh,  lamb  of  God,  my  love  for  Thee 
As  for  a  bridegroom  e'er  shall  be. 

Alas,  that  I  so  late  have  known 
Thy  glory's  might,  to  praise  with  zest, 
Nor  sooner  called  Thee  quite  mine  own, 
Thou  highest  good  and  safest  rest! 
I  do  bemoan  my  sorry  state 
Because  I  loved  so  late. 
31 


OLD  TIME 


Ah,  blinded  I  had  gone  astray, 
I  could  not  find  Thee  in  my  plight; 
For  I  from  Thee  had  turned  away, 
And  loved  but  the  created  light. 
But  now  it  is  vouchsafed  by  Thee 
That  I  Thyself  may  see. 

I  thank  Thee,  oh  my  sun:  my  night 
Is  now  illumined  by  Thy  ray ; 
I  thank  Thee,  heavenly  delight, 
That  Thou  hast  made  me  free  and  gay. 
Thou  golden  mouth,  my  thanks  I  give: 
In  health  renewed  Thou  let'st  me  live. 

My  footsteps,  on  Thy  pathways  led, 
May  never  stray  or  turn  aside: 
Upon  Thy  roads,  oh,  let  me  tread, 
Nor  halt,  nor  stumble — be  my  guide ! 
Illumine  soul  and  body  quite, 
Thou  strong  celestial  light ! 

Pour  sweetest  tears  into  mine  eyes, 
Chaste  ardour  give  unto  my  heart ; 
Oh,  teach  my  soul  and  make  it  wise 
To  practise  love's  most  gentle  art; 
And  let  my  spirit,  sense  and  mind 
E'er  be  to  Thee  inclined. 


ANGELUS  SILESIUS 


To  love  without  reward,  renown, 
E'en  when  in  greatest  pain  I  plod; 
I  want  to  love  Thee,  fairest  light, 
Till  my  heart's  night. 


S3 


JOACHIM  NEANDER 
Born  1650  in  Bremen.     Died  1680  in  Bremen 

Praise  the  Lord  God 

Praise  the  Lord  God,  the  great  monarch  of  glory, 

oh,  praise ! 

This  is  my  will,  my  dear  soul,  upon  all  of  my  ways. 
Come  all  and  meet, 
Wake  harp  and  psalter  chords  sweet, 
Jubilant  music,  oh,  raise ! 

Praise  the  Lord  God,  the  magnificent  ruler  and 

king, 
Praise  Him  who  leads  thee  in  safety  on  eagle-like 


wing 


Hast  thou  not  felt 

How  through  His  love  thou  hast  dwelt 

Gladly  with  every  good  thing? 

Praise  the  Lord  God  who  has  fashioned  thee  deli- 
cate, fair, 

Gave  thee  thy  health  and  has  saved  thee  from  many 
a  snare. 

In  times  of  need 

34 


JOACHIM  NEANDER 


Thou  wast  in  God's  gracious  heed, 
His  wings  spread  o'er  thee  with  care. 

Praise  the  Lord  God  who  has  blessed  thee  with 

bountiful  store, 
His   streams   of   mercy   from   heaven   unendingly 

pour. 

Remember  too, 
What  the  Almighty  can  do, 
Whose  love  is  nigh  evermore. 

Praise  the  Lord  God,  all  my  being,  the  rest  of  my 
days, 

All  that  has  breath  sing  with  those  that  go  Abra- 
ham's ways; 

He  is  thy  light, 

Soul,  oh  forget  not  His  might, 

End  with  Amen  thy  loud  praise! 


35 


CHRISTIAN    FURCHTEGOTT    GELLERT 

Born  1715  in  Hainichen  (Saxony).     Died  1760  in 
Leipzig 

The  Blind  and  the  Lame 

It  happens  that  a  man  quite  blind 

A  lame  man  on  the  street  doth  find. 

With  hope  the  blind  man's  heart  is  gay: 

There's  one  to  lead  him  on  his  way! 

"I  help  you?"  says  the  lame.     "What  talk! 

Helpless  myself,  I  cannot  walk. 

It  seems,  your  healthy  shoulders  there 

With  ease  a  little  load  could  bear. 

Come,  carry  me  upon  your  way; 

Which  path  to  follow,  I  shall  say. 

Your  hardy  foot  my  foot  shall  be, 

And  with  my  bright  eye  you  shall  see." 

The  lame  man  with  his  crutch  we  find 

Upon  the  broad  back  of  the  blind. 

United  they  can  do  what  one 

Alone  could  nevermore  have  done. 

What  you  have  not,  will  be  possessed 
By  others  not  with  your  gifts  blessed. 
And  from  such  imperfection  springs 
The  bond  that  men  together  brings. 
36 


CHRISTIAN  FURCHTEGOTT  GELLERT 

Did  not  my  neighbour  lack  the  gift 
That  nature  gave  me  in  her  thrift, 
He,  thinking  of  himself  alone, 
A  care  for  me  would  scarce  have  known. 

Vex  not  the  gods  with  discontent: 
The  gift  upon  another  spent 
Shall  truly  be  a  common  good, 
If  we  but  live  in  brotherhood. 


37 

367494 


FRIEDRICH  GOTTLOB  KLOPSTOCK 

Born  1724  in  Quedlinburg.     Died  1803  in  Ham- 
burg 

The  Early  Graves 

Be  welcome,  oh  silvery  moon, 

Quiet,  beautiful  friend  of  night ! 

Flee'st  thou  ?    Hasten  not,  stay,  oh  spirit-friend ! 

Lo,  now  she  stays,  only  clouds  wandered  away. 

The  waking  of  May  is  alone 

Fairer  still  than  the  summer  night, 

When  the   dew,  clear   as  light,   from   her  tresses 

drips, 

When  she,  ascending  the  hill,  ruddily  glows. 
Ye  nobler  ones !     Gloomily  grows 
On  your  tombstones  the  sober  moss ! 
Happy  I  was,  alas,  when  I  still  with  you 
Looked  upon  roseate  dawns,  shimmering  nights ! 


MATTHIAS  CLAUDIUS 

Born  1740  in  Reinfeld  (Holstein).     Died  1815  in 
Hamburg 

Evening  Song 

The  moon  is  risen,  beaming, 

The  golden  stars  are  gleaming 

So  brightly  in  the  skies; 

The  hushed,  black  woods   are  dreaming, 

The  mists,  like  phantoms  seeming, 

From  meadows  magically  rise. 

How  still  the  world  reposes, 

While  twilight  round  it  closes, 

So  peaceful  and  so  fair ! 

A  quiet  room  for  sleeping, 

Into  oblivion  steeping 

The  day's  distress  and  sober  care. 

Look  at  the  moon  so  lonely ! 
One  half  is  shining  only, 
Yet  she  is  round  and  bright; 
Thus  oft  we  laugh  unknowing 
At  things  that  are  not  showing, 
That  still  are  hidden  from  our  sight. 
39 


OLD  TIME 


We,  with  our  proud  endeavour, 
Are  poor  vain  sinners  ever, 
There's  little  that  we  know. 
Frail  cobwebs  we  are  spinning, 
Our  goal  we  are  not  winning, 
But  straying  farther  as  we  go. 

God,  make  us  see  Thy  glory, 
Distrust  things  transitory, 
Delight  in  nothing  vain ! 
Lord,  here  on  earth  stand  by  us, 
To  make  us  glad  and  pious, 
And  artless  children  once  again! 

Grant  that,  without  much  grieving, 
This  world  we  may  be  leaving 
In  gentle  death  at  last. 
And  then  do  not  forsake  us, 
But  into  heaven  take  us, 
Lord  God,  oh,  hold  us  fast ! 

Lie  down,  my  friends,  reposing, 
Your  eyes  in  God's  name  closing. 
How  cold  the  night-wind  blew ! 
Oh  God,  Thine  anger  keeping, 
Now  grant  us  peaceful  sleeping, 
And  our  sick  neighbour  too. 


40 


FOLK  SONG 

Eighteenth  century 

Were  I  a  Little  Bird 

Were  I  a  little  bird 
And  had  two  little  wings, 
I'd  fly  to  thee; 
But  I  must  stay,  because 
That  cannot  be. 

Though  I  be  far  from  thee, 
In  sleep  I  dwell  with  thee, 
Thy  voice  I  hear. 
But  when  I  wake  again, 
Then  all  is  drear. 

Each  nightly  hour  my  heart 
With  thoughts  of  thee  will  start, 
When  I'm  alone; 
For  thou  hast  a  thousand  times 
Pledged  me  thine  own. 


HUMOROUS  BALLAD 

End  of  eighteenth  century 

The  Tailor  in  Hell 

A  tailor  'gan  to  wander 

One  Monday  morning  fair, 

And  then  he  met  the  devil, 

Whose  feet  and  legs  were  bare: 

"Hallo,  thou  tailor-fellow, 

Come  now  with  me  to  hell — oh, 

And  measure  clothes  for  us  to  wear, 

For  what  you  will  is  well,  oh !" 

The  tailor  measured,  then  he  took 
His  scissors  long  and  clipped 
The  devils'  little  tails  all  off, 
And  to  and  fro  they  skipped. 
"Hallo,  thou  tailor-fellow, 
Now  hie  thee  out  of  hell — oh, 
We  do  not  need  this  clipping,  sir: 
What  you  will  is  not  well,  oh !" 

The  tailor  took  his  iron  out, 
And  tossed  it  in  the  fire; 
The  devils'  wrinkles  then  he  pressed; 
42 


HUMOROUS  BALLAD 


Their  screams  were  something  dire: 
"Hallo,  thou  tailor-fellow, 
Now  get  thee  out  of  hell — oh, 
We  do  not  need  this  pressing, 
What  you  will  is  not  well,  oh !" 

"Keep  still !"  he  said,  and  pierced  their  heads 

With  a  bodkin  from  his  sack. 

"This  way  we  put  the  buttons  on, 

For  that's  our  tailor's  knack!" 

"Hallo,  thou  tailor-fellow, 

Now  hie  thee  out  of  hell — oh, 

We  do  not  need  this  dressing: 

What  you  will  is  not  well,  oh !" 

With  thimble  and  with  needle  then 

His  stitching  he  began, 

And  closed  the  devils'  nostrils  up 

As  tightly  as  one  can. 

"Hallo,  thou  tailor-fellow, 

Now  hie  thee  out  of  hell — oh, 

We  cannot  use  our  noses, 

Do  what  we  will  for  smell,  oh!" 

Then  he  began  to  cut  away — 
It  must  have  made  them  smart — 
With  all  his  might  the  tailor  ripped 
The  devils'  ears  apart: 
"Hallo,  thou  tailor-fellow, 
Now  march  away  from  hell — oh, 
43 


OLD  TIME 


We  else  should  need  a  Doctor, 
If  what  you  will  were  well — oh!" 

And  last  of  all  came  Lucifer 
And  cried:    "What  horror  fell! 
No  devil  has  his  little  tail; 
So  drive  him  out  of  hell: 
Hallo,  thou  tailor-fellow, 
Now  hie  thee  out  of  hell — oh, 
We  need  to  wear  no  clothes  at  all — 
What  you  will  is  not  well,  oh !" 

And  when  the  tailor's  sack  was  packed, 

He  felt  so  very  well — oh ! 

He  hopped  and  skipped  without  dismay 

And  had  a  laughing  spell — oh ! 

And  hurried  out  of  hell — oh! 

And  stayed  a  tailor-fellow; 

And  the  devil  will  catch  no  tailor  now, 

Let  him  steal,  as  he  will — it  is  well,  though! 


44 


ALSATIAN  SOLDIER  SONG 

1784-90 

The  Swiss 

In  Strassburg  in  the  fort 

All  woe  began  for  me: 

The  Alpine  bugle  yonder  made  me  sore, 

I  had  to  swim  to  my  dear  country's  shore; 

That  should  not  be. 

One  hour  'twas  in  the  night, 

They  took  me  in  my  plight, 

And  led  me  straightway  to  the  captain's  door. 

Oh  God,  they  fished  me  in  the  stream — what  more? 

Now  all  is  o'er. 

To-morrow  morn  at  ten 
The  regiment  I'll  have  to  face; 
They'll  lead  me  there  to  beg  for  grace. 
I'll   have  my   just   reward,   I    know. 
It  must  be  so. 

Ye  brothers,  all  ye  men, 
Ye'll  never  see  me  here  again; 
The  shepherd  boy,  I  say,  began  it  all, 
45 


OLD  TIME 


And  I  accuse  the  Alpine  bugle-call 
Of  this  my  fall. 

I  pray  ye,  brothers  three, 
Come  on  and  shoot  at  me; 
Fear  not  my  tender  life  to  hurt, 
Shoot  on  and  let  the  red  blood  spurt- 
Come  on,  I  say ! 

Oh,  Lord  of  heaven,  on  high ! 
Take  my  poor  erring  soul 
Unto  its  heavenly  goal; 
There  let  it  stay  forever — • 
Forget  me  never ! 


BOOK  II 
CLASSIC  TIME 


JOHANN  WOLFGANG  VON  GOETHE 

Born  1749  in  Frankfurt.     Died  1832  in  Weimar 

To  the  Moon 

Bush  and  vale  are  filled  by  thee 
With  a  silver  haze, 
And  my  soul  thou  hast  set  free 
With  thy  soothing  rays. 

And  thy  gentle  beams  descend 
Kindly  where  I  go, 
Like  the  mild  eye  of  a  friend 
On  my  joy  and  woe. 

Echoes  of  the  times  gone  by 
Tremble  through  my  heart, 
'Twixt  delight  and  grief  I  ply, 
Evermore  apart. 

Dearest  river,  flow,  oh  flow! 
Joy  cannot  abide. 
Play  and  kisses  vanished  so, 
Faithfulness  beside. 

Once — oh,  could  I  but  forget! — 
It  was  mine :  the  rare ! 
49 


CLASSIC  TIME 


And  it  is  a  torture  yet 
Memories  to  bear. 

River,  flow  the  vale  along, 
Without  rest  or  ease, 
Murmur,  whisper  to  my  song 
Gentle  melodies ! 

Swelling  in  the  winter  night 
With  thy  roaring  flood, 
Bubbling  in  the  spring's  delight 
Over  leaf  and  bud ! 

Blessed  is  he  who  walks  apart, 
Though  no  hate  he  bears, 
Holds  a  friend  within  his  heart; 
And  with  him  he  shares 

All  that  steals,  by  men  unguessed, 
Or  by  men  unknown, 
Through  the  maze  of  his  own  breast 
In  the  night  alone. 

Wanderer's  Night  Songs 


Thou  who  from  heaven  art, 
All  our  pain  and  sorrow  stillest, 
All  the  souls  that  doubly  smart, 
Doubly  with  thy  solace  fillest, 
50 


JOHANN  WOLFGANG  VON  GOETHE 

Ah,  if  all  this  toil  might  cease  ! 
Why  this  heartache,  joy  and  zest? 
Peace,  sweet  peace, 
Come,  oh  come  into  my  breast! 

ii 

Over  every  crest 

Is  rest, 

In  all  the  trees 

The  breeze 

Scarce  touches  you. 

Hushed  is  the  wood-bird's  song. 

Wait:  before  long, 

You  will  rest  too. 

Dear  Children.,  Soon  I'll  Come  Again! 

Dear  children,  soon  I'll  come  again ! 
See,  winter  captures  us  in  vain 
Here  in  our  rooms  mid  warmth  and  glee. 
We'll  sit  beside  the  fire  these  days, 
Enjoy  ourselves  a  thousand  ways, 
And  love  like  angels,  tenderly. 
And   little  garlands   let  us   wind, 
And  little  nosegays  let  us  bind, 
Like  little  children  let  us  be! 

Mignon 

Ah,  dost  thou  know  the  land  where  citron  grows, 
In  sombre  leaves  the  golden  orange  glows, 
51 


CLASSIC  TIME 


A  gentle  wind  blows  from  the  azure  sky, 
Calm  myrtle,  fragrant  laurel  bloom  on  high? 
Ah,  dost  thou  know  it?     There,  oh  there! 
With  thee,  my  dear  one,  how  I  long  to  fare ! 

Ah,  dost  thou  know  the  house?    The  pillars  white 

Uphold  the  roof,  the  halls  are  glistening  bright, 

And  marble  statues  seem  to  gaze  at  me: 

Thou  poorest  child,  what  have  they  done  to  thee? 

Ah,  dost  thou  know  it  ?   There,  oh  there ! 

With  thee,  oh  my  protector,  I  would  fare ! 

Ah,  dost  thou  know  the  mountain's  cloudy  ways? 
The  mule  there  seeks  a  path  within  the  haze. 
The  broods  of  ancient  dragons  haunt  the  caves, 
The  rock  breaks  down  and  over  it  the  waves. 
Ah,  dost  thou  know  it?    There,  oh  there! 
Our  way  must  go,  my  father,  let  us  fare ! 

Song  of  the  Harper 

Who  never  ate  his  bread  in  tears, 

Who  never  through  the  mournful  night 

Sat  weeping  on  his  bed  with  fears — 

He  knows  not,  heavenly  powers,  your  might! 

You  plunge  him  into  life  amain, 
You  lead  him  into  sin  from  dearth, 
Then  leave  the  poor  man  to  his  pain — 
For  all  sin  is  revenged  on  earth. 
52 


JOHANN  WOLFGANG  VON  GOETHE 


The  Harper 

Ah,  he  who  seeketh  solitude 

Is  all  too  soon  alone; 

Men  live  and  love,  but  he  must  brood 

Upon  his  pain  and  moan. 

Leave  agony  with  me! 

When  I  at  last  shall  be 

Quite  lonely  grown — 

I  shall  not  be  alone. 

A  lover  steals  upon  his  way 

To  hark  if  his  love  be  alone. 

Thus  pain  steals  o'er  me  night  and  day 

When  I  am  lonely  grown; 

And  thus  creeps  agony. 

When  I  at  last  shall  be 

Within  my  grave  unknown: 

Then  I'll  be  left  alone! 


The  King  in  Thule 

There  was  a  king  in  Thule, 
Right  faithful  to  his  grave, 
To  whom  his  dying  sweetheart 
A  golden  goblet  gave. 

Naught  else  he  loved  above  it, 
He  emptied  it  every  meal; 
53 


CLASSIC  TIME 


And  so  he  used  to  love  it — 

The  tears  from  his  eyes  would  steal. 

He  felt  that  he  was  dying, 
And  gave  unto  his  heir 
The  towns  in  his  kingdom  lying — 
But  not  the  goblet  rare. 

He  sat  at  the  banquet  royal 
In  the  old  hall  solemnly, 
With  all  his  vassals  loyal, 
In  the  castle  by  the  sea. 

There  stood  the  aged  monarch 
And  drank  life's  sunset  glow; 
And  cast  the  sacred  goblet 
Into  the  flood  below. 

He  saw  it  rushing,  drinking, 
Into  the  sea  it  sank. 
His  eyelids  old  were  sinking — 
Ne'er  more  a  drop  he  drank. 

GretcTien's  Song 

My  peace  is  gone, 
My  heart's  in  pain; 
I'll  never,  never 
Find  peace  again. 
54 


JOHANN  WOLFGANG  VON  GOETHE 

Where  he  cannot  be 
Is  a  grave  for  me, 
The  world  and  all 
Is  turned  to  gall. 

My  poor,  poor  head 
Is  gone  astray, 
My  sense  has  fled 
Oh,  quite  away. 

My  peace  is  gone, 
My  heart's  in  pain; 
I'll  never,  never 
Find  peace  again. 

Out  of  the  window 
For  him  I  gaze, 
I  seek  him  only 
On  all  my  ways. 

His  noble  build, 
His  bearing  high, 
The  smile  on  his  lips, 
The  power  of  his  eye ! 

To  hear  him  talk — 
What  magic  bliss, 
To  feel  his  hand, 
And — oh,  his  kiss ! 
55 


CLASSIC  TIME 


My  peace  is  gone, 
My  heart's  in  pain; 
I'll  never,  never 
Find  peace  again. 

My  bosom  longs 

To  hold  him  fast. 

If  I  could  clasp  him — 

What  joy  at  last! 

And  I  should  kiss  him 
With  my  last  breath, 
Till  with  his  kisses 
I  found  my  death ! 

Gretchen 

Incline  thou, 

O  mother  of  sorrow, 

Thy  gracious  face  upon  my  need! 

A  sword  unsparing 

Thy  heart  is  tearing. 

Thou  seest  how  thine  own  Son  must  bleed. 

With  eyes  imploring, 

Thy  sighs  outpouring, 

Thou  prayest  for  His  and  thy  great  need. 

Who  f  eeleth 
How  stealeth 

56 


JOHANN  WOLFGANG  VON  GOETHE 

My  pain  through  every  bone? 
How  my  poor,  poor  heart  is  quaking, 
How  with  longing  it  is  aching, 
Thou  canst  know  alone,  alone ! 

Wherever  I  am  turning, 

With  what  a  sore,  sore  burning 

My  bosom  ever  aches ! 

When  I  am  left  alone  now, 

I  weep  and  weep  and  moan  now, 

My  heart  within  me  breaks. 

The  plants  before  my  window 
I  watered  with  tears — oh,  see  ! — 
When  in  the  early  morning 
I  broke  these  flowers  for  thee. 

Yes,  when  the  sun  was  shining 
In  at  my  room  to-day, 
In  bed  I  sat  up  pining 
So  early,  in  dismay. 

Help  !     Rescue  me  from  death — disgrace ! 

Incline  thou, 

Oh,  mother  of  sorrow, 

Upon  my  need  thy  gracious  face ! 

Found 

I  wandered  lonely 
Beneath  the  trees, 
57 


CLASSIC  TIME 


And  sought  for  nothing, 
But  strolled  at  ease. 

There  in  the  shadows 
A  flower  grew, 
Like  starlight  beaming, 
Like  eyes  so  blue 

I  sought  to  break  it, 
But  heard  it  say: 
"Shall  I  be  broken 
To  fade  away?" 

I  aug  it  out  then 
With  roots  and  all, 
And  bore  it  home  to 
My  garden  small. 

Again  it's  planted 
And  finds  repose; 
And  now  as  ever 
It  bluoms  and  grows. 

Wild  Rose 

Once  a  lad  a  rose  did  spy, 
On  the  moorland  growing, 
Young  and  lovely  to  the  eye; 
Fast  he  ran  to  see  it  nigh, 
Ran  with  pleasure  glowing. 
58 


JOHANN  WOLFGANG  VON  GOETHE 

Red  rose,  red  rose,  red  rose  red, 
On  the  moorland  growing. 

Spake  the  lad:    "I'll  pick  thee  now, 
Rose  on  moorland  growing!" 
Spake  the  rose:  "I'll  prick  thee  now: 
Thou  wilt  think  of  me,  I  trow ! — 
Go,  wild  boy,  be  going!" 

But  the  boy  so  wild  and  bad 
Broke  the  red  rose  glowing; 
Rose  in  anger  pricked  the  lad, 
Rose  must  suffer  him,  though  sad 
And  her  fury  showing. 
Red  rose,  red  rose,  red  rose  red, 
Rose  on  moorland  growing! 

The  Fisher 

The  water  roared,  the  water  rose, 
The  fisher  on  the  sand 
Looked  at  his  angle  in  repose; 
Right  cool  were  heart  and  hand. 
And  as  he  sits  and  harks  at  ease, 
The  waters  rise  and  part: 
Out  of  the  whirling  waves  he  sees 
A  dewy  woman  dart. 

She  sang  to  him,  she  said  to  him: 
"Why  lurest  thou  my  brood 
59 


CLASSIC  TIME 


To  death  with  human  ruse  and  whim 

And  scorching  sunbeams  rude? 

Ah,  if  thou  knewest  how  below 

The  little  fishes  feel, 

Thou  straight  into  the  deep  wouldst  go, 

All  weariness  to  heal. 

"Does  not  the  sun  refresh  his  face, 

The  moon  hers  in  the  sea? 

Do  they  not  shine  with  double  grace, 

When  breathing  billows  free? 

Does  not  the  lucid  heavenly  deep 

Entice  thee,  all  this  blue? 

Dost  thou  not  long  thy  face  to  steep 

Into  eternal  dew?" 

The  water  roared,  the  water  rose, 

His  foot  was  wet  and  bare; 

And  in  his  heart  a  longing  grows, 

As  if  his  love  were  there. 

She  sang  to  him  and  said  her  say, 

And  then  it  all  was  o'er: 

She  pulled  half-way,  he  sank  half-way, 

And  he  was  seen  no  more. 

The  Alderking 

Who  rides  through  the  night  and  the  storm,  so  wild  ? 
It  is  the  father  who  carries  his  child; 
He  holds  the  boy  secure  in  his  arm, 
He  keeps  him  warm  and  safe  from  harm. 
60 


JOHANN  WOLFGANG  VON  GOETHE 

"Why,   son,   art   thou   hiding   thy   face   in   fear?" 
"Seest  thou  not,  father,  the  Alderking  near? 
The  Alderking  with  his  crown  and  train?" — 
"My  son,  it  is  mist  before  the  rain." 

"Thou  dearest  child,  oh,  come  with  me ! 
Such  lovely  games  I'll  play  with  thee. 
My  flowers  gay  thou  shalt  behold ; 
My  mother  has  many  a  gown  of  gold." 

"My  father,  my  father,  and  canst  thou  not  hear 
What  Alderking  whispers  into  my  ear?" — 
"Be  calm,  be  calm,  my  dearest  child ! 
The  wind  in  the  leaves  is  murmuring  wild." 

"Wilt  thou  come  with  me,  oh  handsome  lad? 
My  daughters  shall  serve  thee  and  make  thee  glad ; 
My  daughters  their  nightly  dances  keep — 
They  will  rock  and  dance  and  sing  thee  to  sleep." 

"My  father,  my  father,  and  canst  thou  not  mark 
Alderking's  daughters  there  in  the  dark?" — 
"My  son,  my  son,  it  is  clear  as  day: 
The  ancient  willows  appear  so  gray." 

"I  love  thee,  thy  beauty  has  charmed  my  eye; 
If  thou  art  not  willing,  with  force  I  will  try." — 
"My  father,  my  father,  now  he  clutches  my  arm! 
The  Alderking  has  done  me  harm !" 
61 


CLASSIC  TIME 


The  father  shudders,  his  riding  is  wild, 
He  holds  in  his  arms  the  moaning  child, 
He  barely  reaches  his  own  homestead; 
And  in  his  arms  the  child  was  dead. 

The  Singer 

"Outside  the  gate  what  do  I  hear, 

What  on  the  bridgehead  ringing? 

Let  it  resound  upon  my  ear 

Within  the  hall — this  singing!" 

Thus  spake  the  king,  the  page  ran  out, 

The  boy  came  back,  the  king  did  shout: 

"Let  in  the  aged  singer !" 

"Right  noble  masters  that  you  are, 
Fair  ladies,  I  salute  you ! 
Ah,  what  a  heaven !    Star  by  star  ! 
Who  knows  the  names  that  suit  you? 
Before  this  splendour,  light  sublime, 
Close,  eyes;  for  this  is  not  the  time 
To  gaze  in  joyous  wonder." 

Full  chords  he  struck,  and  closed  his  eyes, 
His  voice  in  gladness  raising; 
The  knights   looked  up   in   gallant  wise, 
The  ladies  down  were  gazing. 
The  king,  delighted  with  the  lay, 
To  honour  him  for  song  and  play, 
A  golden  chain  then  gave  him. 
62 


J  OH  ANN  WOLFGANG  FON  GOETHE 

11  Oh,  give  me  not  the  golden  chain ! 
Your  knights  it  fitly  graces, 
For  hostile  lances  split  in  twain 
Before  their  dauntless  faces ; 
Give  it  your  chancellor  to  wear, 
Let  him  with  all  his  burdens  bear 
One  more — this  golden  burden. 

"I  sing  just  as  the  wild  bird  sings 

That  in  the  boughs  is  living, 

The   song,   while    from   the   heart   it   springs, 

Its  own  reward  is  giving. 

Yet  one  request  alone  be  mine: 

Pray,  let  me  drink  your  rarest  wine 

From  a  pure  golden  goblet." 

He  took  the  cup,  he  quaffed  it  all: 
"Such  wine  is  sweetest  pleasure! 
Upon  your  house  all  blessings   fall 
Where  this  is  deemed  small  measure ! 
If  you  fare  well,  remember  me, 
And  thank  your  God  as  heartily 
As  for  this  wine  I  thank  you." 

The  Wizard's  Apprentice 

Now  old  wizard  has  at  last 
Left  me  here  and  gone  away ! 
And  his  spirit-minions  fast 
My  commands  shall  now  obey. 
63 


CLASSIC  TIME 


Master's  words  I  know, 
All  he  used  to  do. 
By  my  wit  I'll  show 
I  can  conjure  too. 

Water  flow, 

And  profuse, 

For  good  use, 

Bubbling  pour, 

Till  the  foaming  basin  grow 

Richer,  fuller  evermore. 
Come,  old  broom  and  don  your  rag ! 
All  my  wishes  now  fulfill: 
Thou  hast  long  time  been  a  fag; 
Rise  and  stir  and  do  my  will ! 
Stand  on  two  legs — so ! 
Head  shall  grow  on  top! 
Get  me  water,  go! 
Take  your  pail  and  hop! 

Water  flow, 

And  profuse, 

For  good  use, 

Bubbling  pour, 

Till  the  foaming  basin  grow 

Richer,  fuller  evermore. 
Lo,  he  runs  and  now  indeed 
He  has  reached  the  river's  shore, 
And  returns  with  lightning  speed, 
Water  from  his  pail  to  pour. 

Now  he's  done  it  twice: 

How  the  basin  swells ! 
64 


JOHANN  WOLFGANG  VON  GOETHE 

Dishes  in  a  trice 

Look  like  water-wells! 

Stay,  stand  still ! 

Of  thy  store 

I  have  more 

Than  my  fill! 

Ah,  now  I  begin  to  know: 

I  forgot  the  word !    Oh,  woe ! 
Word  that  makes  him  be  at  last 
What  he  was  inside  the  room ! 
Ah,  he  fills  the  bucket  fast! 
Wert  thou  but  the  old,  old  broom! 
More  and  more  he  brings, 
Still  new  torrents  gush! 
Over  me  he  flings 
Rivers  with  their  rush. 

I  will  bear 

This  no  longer: 

Hold — I'm  stronger! 

Treachery ! 

Now  I  feel  a  creeping  scare ! 

Ah,  what  mien,  what  looks  I  see ! 
Oh,  thou  vilest  child  of  hell ! 
Wouldst  thou  have  the  whole  house  drowned  ? 
Mighty  streams  of  water  swell, 
Over  every  threshold  bound. 
Oh,  the  broom  accursed 
Will  not  heed  my  will ! 
Stick  thou  wast  at  first — 
Once  again  stand  still! 
65 


CLASSIC  TIME 


Will  he  never 

Do  what's  told  him? 

I  will  hold  him, 

And  endeavour 

Fast  to  split  the  bad  old  wood 

With  my  hatchet  sharp  and  good. 
There  he  comes,  still  burdened  so! 
On  thee  now  I'll  cast  my  weight: 
Fiend,  thou  shalt  be  lying  low, 
On  thy  wood  the  axe  shall  grate! 
Good!    I've  done  the  deed! 
Lo,  he's  cut  in  twain ! 
I  can  hope,  and  freed 
I  can  breathe  again! 

Woe !     What  plight ! 

Now  each  part 

Up  doth  start, 

And  upright 

Stand  two  servants  in  my  sight ! 

Help  me,  oh,  some  higher  might! 
And  they  run !   Now  more  and  more 
Deluge  swallows  stairs  and  hall. 
Endless  streams  of  water  pour. 
Lord  and  master!     Hear  me  call! 
There's  the  master! — Pray, 
Help,  sir!     I'm  appalled! 
Spirits  I  have  called 
I  can't  drive  away. 

"In  the  room's 

Corner,  brooms ! 
66 


JO H ANN  WOLFGANG  VON  GOETHE 

There  you  were. 

You   shall   stir 

Only  when  I  let  you  loose, 

Spirits  for  the  master's  use!" 


67 


FRIEDRICH  VON  SCHILLER 

Born  1759  in  Marbach  (Wiirttemberg).   Died  1805 
in  Weimar 

The  Song  of  the  Bell 

Walled  in  fast  within  the  earth 
Stands  the  form  burnt  out  of  clay. 
This  must  be  the  bell's  great  birth ! 
Fellows,  lend  a  hand  to-day. 
Sweat  must  trickle  now 
From  the  burning  brow, 
Till  the  work  its  master  honour. 
Blessing  comes  from  Heaven's  Donor. 
While  we  our  serious  work  are  doing, 
We  ought  to  speak  a  serious  word, 
More  easily  our  work  pursuing, 
When  noble  speech  the  while  is  heard. 
Now  let  us  earnestly  be  spying 
What  our  weak  powers  can  create; 
I  scorn  the  man  who  is  not  trying 
On  his   own  work  to  meditate. 
This  is  the  fairest  of  man's  graces : 
The  power  to  think  and  understand — 
For  in  his  inmost  heart  he  traces 
What  he  has  fashioned  with  his  hand. 
68 


FRIEDRICH  VON  SCHILLER 

Wood  that  from  the  pine-tree  came 
Keep  right  dry  with  zealous  care, 
That  the  deftly  governed  flame 
Through  the  furnace  hole  may  flare. 
Boiling  copper's  thick — 
Get  the  tin  now,  quick! 
Let  the  substance,  liquid  growing, 
In  a  docile  way  be  flowing. 
What  with  the  help  of  fire's  great  power 
In  this  deep  pit  our  hands  have  framed, 
High  on  the  belfry  of  the  tower 
In  mighty  tones  shall  be  proclaimed. 
In  ages  far  beyond  the  morrow, 
A  voice  for  many  shall  ring  out, 
And  it  will  mourn  with  those  in  sorrow 
And  join  the  choir  of  the  devout. 
What  fate,  forever  changing,  fleeting, 
To  mortals  far  below  may  bring, 
Against  the  crown  of  metal  beating, 
As  music  of  the  bell  will  ring. 

Bubbles  leaping,  white  and  spry! 
Good !     The  masses  flow  at  last. 
Mix  them  with  the  alkali, 
That  they  be  more  quickly  cast. 
From  all  foam  quite  free 
Shall  the  mixture  be, 
From  the  metal  pure  before  us, 
Rise  a  perfect  voice  sonorous. 
The  bell  with  festive  peal  and  cheering 
Greets  the  beloved  tender  child, 


CLASSIC  TIME 


Upon  his  life's  first  way  appearing, 
Still  in  the  arms  of  sleep  beguiled. 
Deep  in  the  womb  of  time  there  stay 
His  destinies,  both  dark  and  gay. 
His  mother's  gentle,  loving  care 
Is  watching  still  his  morning  fair. 
The  years  fly  swiftly — all  is  play. 
Away  from  girls,  impatient,  tearing, 
The  boy  starts  wildly  forth  to  roam, 
He  sees  the  world,  and,  after  faring, 
Comes  back,  a  stranger,  to  his  home. 
In  beauty  and  youth's  splendour  glowing, 
A  vision  from  some  heavenly  height, 
While  blushes  on  her  cheeks  are  growing, 
He  sees  the  maiden  with  delight. 
And  now  a  strange  and  nameless  yearning 
Has  seized  upon  the  young  man's  heart, 
From  sports  and  wild  companions  turning, 
With  tearful  eyes  he  roams  apart. 
And  happy  at  her  slightest  speaking, 
Her  footsteps  blushingly  to  trace, 
He  wanders  over  meadows,  seeking 
The  fairest  flowers  his  love  to  grace. 
Oh,  tender  longing,  sweetest  hoping, 
First  love's  enchanting,  golden  days ! 
The  eye  can  see  the  heavens  oping, 
A  bliss  the  heart  unhindered  sways. 
Would  it  might  bloom  eternally — 
The  time  of  young  love's  ecstasy ! 

See,  how  brown  the  blow-pipes  grow ! 
70 


FRIEDRICH  VON  SCHILLER 

When  this  stick  has  been  dipped  in, 

And  a  glaze  begins  to  show, 

Then  the  casting  should  begin. 

Now  good  fellows,  quick! 

Prove  the  mixture  thick! 

Hard  and  soft  united  duly 

Are  a  lucky  omen  truly. 
For  when  the  stern  and  mild  are  pairing, 
The  tender  with  the  strong  and  daring, 
The  tone  must  ring  out  fair  and  strong. 
Let  him  who  binds  himself  forever, 
To  sound  his  heart  and  hers  endeavour! 
Passion  is  short,  repentance  long. 
On  the  young  bride's  tresses  lightly 
Lies  the  wreath  of  blossoms  white, 
When  the  church  bells,  ringing  brightly, 
To  the  festive  hour  invite. 
Lovely  festival — the  ending 
Of — alas! — life's  joyous  May, 
Beautiful  illusions  rending 
With  the  veil  and  bride's  array! 
Passion  will  fly! 
Love  must  remain; 
The  flower  must  die, 
The  fruit  to  attain. 
The  man  must  go  out 
To  stern  hostile  life, 
For  power  and  strife, 
To  plant  and  to  toil, 
To  gain  and  to  foil, 

71 


CLASSIC  TIME 


To  wager  and  dare, 

His  luck  to  ensnare. 

And  now  without  end  the  blessings  are  streaming, 

With  goodly  possessions  the  storerooms  are  teem- 
ing, 

The  rooms  are  expanding,  the  house  has  to  grow. 

And  in  it  there  moves 

The  good,  modest  housewife, 

The  mother  of  children, 

Who  wise  and  dear 

Here  rules  in  her  sphere, 

And  teaches  the  girls 

And  wards  off  the  boys, 

While  work  without  end 

Her  busy  hands  tend, 

Enlarging  her  share 

Through  order  and  care, 

Her  sweet-smelling  linen-chests  filling  with  treas- 
ure, 

By  spinning  her  thread  in  the  speediest  measure. 

Her  neatly  and  smoothly  kept  closets  are  full 

Of  linen  like  snow  and  the  shining  fair  wool; 

And  still  adding  glamour  and  charm  to  the  best, 

She  never  can  rest. 

And  the  father  with  happy  eye 

From  his  mansion's  high  gable  is  counting 

Blessings  fair  that  before  him  lie — 

Pillars  and  posts  as  high  as  the  trees, 

Barns  that  are  bursting  with  treasures  that  please, 

Granges  with  bounties  swelling  and  bending, 
72 


FRIEDRICH  VON  SCHILLER 

Grain-fields  waving  in  billows  unending. 

He  boasts  with  noble  pride: 

Firm  as  the  ground  abide 

My  homestead's  splendours  bright 

Against  misfortune's   might! 

Covenants  with  powers  of  fate 

Will — alack  ! — not  always  last, 

And  misfortune  travels   fast. 

Now  the  casting  can  begin, 

For  the  dented  mould  is  fair: 

But  before  we  pour  it  in, 

Let  us  say  a  pious  prayer ! 

Push   the   tendon   hard! 

God  shall  be  our  guard ! 

In  the  bell's  ear  smoking,  glowing, 

Waves  of  fiery  brown  are  flowing. 
Most  wholesome  is  the  force  of  fire, 
When  man  can  tame  and  guard  its  ire, 
And  from  this  heavenly  force  man  takes 
Good  help  for  what  he  moulds  and  makes. 
But  frightful  is  this  power's  abuse 
When,  from  its  fetters  broken  loose, 
Upon  its  own  track  wantonly 
It  roams   as   nature's   daughter   free. 
Horror  when  unbound  and  growing 
— Fiend  that  no  resistance  stays ! — 
Through  the  peopled  city  blowing 
Sweeps  along  the  monster-blaze ! 
Elements  have  ever  hated 
What  the  hand  of  man  created. 
73 


CLASSIC  TIME 


From  the  cloud 
Rain  is  pouring, 
Earth  restoring. 
From  the  cloud,  even  so, 
Lightnings   glow ! 
From  the  tower  hear  the  wail: 
Tis  the  gale! 
Bloody  red 
Are  the  heavens; 

Daylight  ne'er  such  brightness  shed! 
Riot  leavens 
All  the  crowds! 
Dense  smoke-clouds! 
Fiery  pillar,  flickering,  glowing, 
Down  the  street  is  swiftly  going, 
Like  the  wind  so  rapid  growing. 
Hot,  as  if  in  furnace  baking, 
Glows  the  air;  the  beams  are  breaking, 
Windows  rattle,  posts  are  falling, 
Mothers  straying,  children  calling, 
Beasts  are  moaning, 
Crushed,  and  groaning. 
All  run,  save  and  flee  in  fright, 
Bright  as  daylight  is  the  night, 
Chains  of  eager  hands  are  plying, 
Pails  are  flying, 

Arching  water-spouts  are  playing, 
Flames  with  hissing  fountains  spraying; 
Howling  wild  the  storm  is  straying, 
Driving  on  the  flame  with  roars. 
74 


FRIEDRICH  VON  SCHILLER 

Crackling  in  the  dry  grain-stores 

Shoots  the  flame,  through  garrets  sweeping, 

Fast  along  the  rafters  creeping, 

And,  as  if  with  monstrous  blowing 

It  would  sweep  along  in  flight 

The  whole  earth  with  all  its  might, 

Rises,  now  gigantic  growing, 

To  the  sky. 

Man  stands  by: 

Hopeless,  awestruck,  he   is  yielding, 

Sees  the  heavens  their  power  wielding, 

His  own  works  to  ruin  going. 

Now  the  homestead 

Is  burnt  bare; 

Savage  storms  are  raging  there. 

Empty  window-holes  are  staring 

Horror-haunted, 

And  the  sailing  clouds  undaunted 

Peer  inside. 

Man — alack ! — 
Glances  back 
At  the  grave 

Of  the  goods  he  could  not  save: 
Then  ventures  forth  with  spirit  brave. 
However  sadly  he  has  fared, 
Though  raging  fire  has  so  bereft  him, 
The  sweetest  comfort  still  is  left  him: 
He  counts  his  dear  ones:  all  are  spared. 
Now  'tis  resting  in  the  earth, 
75 


CLASSIC  TIME 


For  the  form  contains  its  fill. 

Will  there  be  a  happy  birth, 

To  repay  our  care  and  skill? 

Is  there  a  mistake? 

If  the  form  should  break? 

While  our  hopes  are  soaring  high — 

Woe ! — misfortune  may  be  nigh. 
Unto  the  sacred  earth  confiding, 
We  trust  to  her  our  hands'  own  deed, 
The  sower  trusts  to  her  his  seed, 
Calm,  with  a  blessed  hope  abiding 
That  it  shall  grow  as  Heaven  decreed. 
Alas,  we  know  that  seed  far  rarer 
In  earth's  dark  bosom  buried  lies, 
And  hope  that  to  a  lot  still  fairer 
Out  of  the  graveyard  it  will  rise. 
From  the  church 
Tolls  the  bell 
Grave  and  heavy 
Funeral  knell. 

And  the  toll  sonorous  is  attending 
One  more  pilgrim  on  his  last  way  wending. 
Woe !     It  is  the  wife  beloved. 
Woe!     It  is  the  faithful  mother 
Whom  the  shadow  prince  of  harm 
Drew  from  out  her  husband's  arm, 
From  her  tender  children's  sphere, 
Whom  she  bare  him,  fair  and  dear, 
And  then  watched  with  mother's  zest 
As  they  grew  upon  her  breast. 
76 


FRIEDRICH  VON  SCHILLER 

Ah !     The  home's  most  tender  ties 

Are  unloosed  forevermore; 

In   the  shadowland  she  lies 

Who  was  mother  here  before. 

How  they  miss  her  faithful  guiding, 

And  the  care  she  used  to  give ! 

In  the  orphaned  home  presiding, 

Loveless  strangers  soon  will  live. 
Till  the  bell  shall  cooler  be, 
After  labour  take  your  ease, 
And  as  birds  play  in  the  tree, 
Each  shall  do  what  he  may  please. 
Youth,  at  rise  of  stars, 
Free  from  duty's  bars, 
Hears  the  evening  bell,  releasing: 
Master's  toil  is  never  ceasing. 

In  the  forest  wild  the  wanderer 

Homeward  turns  his  steps  with  pleasure 

To  his  dear  and  cheerful  cottage. 

Homeward  trudge  the  sheep-flocks  bleating, 

And  the  herds 

Of  the  sleek  and  broad-browed  cattle 

With  their  lowing 

To  accustomed  stalls  are  going. 

Now  with  grain 

Heavy  laden, 

Reels  the  wagon: 

And  beneath 

Sheaves,  the  wreath 

Fragrant  lies; 

77 


CLASSIC  TIME 


To  the  dance  the  flock  of  reapers 
Gaily  flies. 

Streets  and  markets  grow  more  quiet; 
Round  the  bright  and  genial  lamplight 
All  the  household  members  gather, 
And  the  town-gate  closes,  creaking. 
Blackness  spreads 
O'er  the  earth; 

But  the  steady  townsman  dreads 
Not  the  night 

Rousing  wicked  men  from  bed: 
For  the  eye  of  law  is  ever  bright. 
Sacred  order,  blessings  spreading, 
Heaven's  .daughter,  freely  treading, 
Like  to  like  thou  bindest  lightly, 
Cities  thou  hast  founded  rightly, 
And  the  wild  man  roaming  blindly 
Thou  hast  called  to  home-life,  kindly. 
To  men's  homes  thy  presence  giving, 
Thou  hast  taught  them  gentle  living, 
Woven  of  all  ties  the  deepest — 
Love  for  fatherland  thou  keepest! 
Busy  hands,  by  thousands  stirring, 
Briskly  one  another  aid, 
And,  while  eager  work  is  spurring, 
All  the  powers  are  displayed. 
Under  freedom's  wing  united, 
Master  and  apprentice  toil, 
Each  with  his  own  place  delighted, 
Ready  any  scorn  to  foil. 
78 


FRIEDRICH  VON  SCHILLER 

Work  adorns  the  burgher  greatly, 

Blessing  is  our  labour's  prize; 

Honoured  crowns  make  princes  stately, 

But  in  work  our  honour  lies. 

Blessed  peace,  oh 

Sweetest  concord, 

Tarry,  tarry 

With  your  kindness  in  this  town ! 

May  that  day  be  never  dawning, 

When  the  hordes  of  war  with  terror 

Raid  across  this  quiet  valley, 

When  the  heavens 

Which  the  lovely  glow  of  evening 

Gently  paints, 

Flash,  alas,  when  towns  are  burning, 

Fiery  taints ! 

Break  the  form  now,  stand  me  by, 

For  its  purpose  is  fulfilled; 

And  rejoice,  let  heart  and  eye 

By  the  well-done  task  be  thrilled. 

Swing  the  hammer,  whack! 

Till  the  cope  shall  crack ! 
.  For  the  finished  bell  shall  rise, 

When  the  form  in  pieces  lies. 
In  time  the  master,  skilled  and  knowing, 
Can  break  the  form  most  prudently. 
Woe !     When  in  fiery  torrents  flowing, 
The  ore  itself  seeks  liberty! 
In  blindest  rage  with  thundrous  roaring, 
The  bursting  house  it  rushes  through, 
79 


CLASSIC  TIME 


As  if  the  jaws  of  hell  were  pouring 
The  flames  that  death  and  horror  spew. 
Where  raw  wild  forces  rage  and  blight, 
Men  can  create  no  form  aright; 
And  no  true  welfare  can  there  be, 
When  mobs  are  by  themselves  set  free. 
Woe,  when  the  tinder-heap  is  swelling 
In  hearts  of  cities,  in  the  night, 
The  masses  tear  their  chains,  rebelling, 
And  free  themselves  with  fury's  might! 
Then  riot,  to  the  bell-ropes  clinging, 
Pulls  till  the  bell  begins  to  howl; 
Devoted  once  to  peaceful  ringing, 
She  gives  the  sign  for  outrage  foul. 
Equality  and  freedom !   screaming, 
The  burgher  in  once  peaceful  hands 
Grasps  weapons;  streets  and  halls  are  teeming, 
And  everywhere  swarm  ruffian  bands. 
With  jest  and  ribaldry  unsparing, 
The  women  like  hyenas  grow, 
With  panther's   fangs   unbridled  tearing 
The  flinching  bosom  of  the  foe. 
There  is  no  sacredness  remaining, 
Unloosed   are  ties  of  piety, 
The  bad  in  goodness'  place  is  reigning, 
And  every  vice  is  swaying  free. 
A  lion  wakened  is   ferocious, 
Destructive  is  the  tiger's  bite; 
But  of  all  horrors  most  atrocious 
Is  man  at  his  own  madness'  height. 
80 


FRIEDRICH  VON  SCHILLER 

Woe  unto  those  who  to  the  yearning, 
The  ever-blind  lend  heaven's  torch ! 
It  will  not  beam;  to  ashes  burning, 
The  fields  and  cities  it  will  scorch. 

Gladness  God  has  given  me ! 

Now  the  kernel  shells  the  mould, 

Rising  smoothly,   evenly, 

Shining  like  a  star  of  gold. 

Dome  and  crest  both  beam, 

Like  the  sunlight's  gleam, 

And  the  blazon's  quaint  device 

Shows  performance  skilled  and  nice. 

Come  in  and  see! 

Now,  fellows,  let  us  close  the  ring, 

For  the  bell's  high  christening: 

Concordia  her  name  shall  be. 

For  concord,  deepest  brotherhood  with  all, 

The  loving  congregation  she  shall  call. 
This  be  the  calling  of  the  bell, 
Wherefore  she  has  been  fashioned  well ! 
With  earthly  life  beneath  her  lying, 
High  she  shall  swing  in  heaven's  blue  dome, 
A  neighbour  of  the  thunder,  flying 
And  touching  on  the  starry  home, 
Her  voice  from  heights  celestial  raising, 
Like  all  the  stars  in  heaven's  sphere, 
That  live  and  move,  their  Maker  praising, 
And  leading  forth  the  festive  year. 
Our  bell,  her  metal  voice  devoting 
Alone  to  grave,  eternal  things, 
81 


CLASSIC  TIME 


Shall  ever  feel,  while  she  is  floating, 

The  throbbing  touch  of  time's  swift  wings. 

The  tongue  of  fate,  she  shall  be  ringing: 

Heartless  herself  and  pitiless, 

She  shall  accompany  with   swinging 

Life's  game  of  constant  changefulness. 

And  as  her  mighty  peal  sonorous 

Within  our  ears  at  last  shall  die, 

A  lesson  she  will  put  before  us, 

That  all  things  earthly  must  go  by. 

Come  now,  with  the  ropes'  whole  might, 

From  her  dungeon  swing  the  bell, 

Till  she  rise  to  heaven's  height, 

In  the  realm  of  sound  to  dwell! 

Pull  and  lift — still  more! 

See  her  move  and  soar ! 

Joy  unto  this  city  bringing, 

Peace  shall  be  her  first  glad  ringing! 


82 


BOOK  III 
ROMANTIC  TIME 


ERNST  MORITZ  ARNDT 
Born  1769  in  Riigen.     Died  I860  in  Bonn 

Union  Song 

This  blessed  hour  we  are  united, 
Of  German  men  a  mighty  choir, 
And  from  the  lips  of  each,  delighted, 
Our  praying  souls  to  heaven  aspire; 
With  high  and  sacred  awe  abounding, 
We  join  in  solemn  thoughts  to-day, 
And  so  our  hearts  should  be  resounding 
In  clear  harmonic  song  and  play. 

To  whom  shall  foremost  thanks  be  given? 
To  God,  our  Lord,  so  long  concealed, 
Who,  when  the  cloud  of  shame  was  riven, 
Himself  in  flames  to  us  revealed, 
Who,  stubborn  foes  with  lightning  felling, 
Restored  to  us  our  strength  of  yore, 
Who,  on  the  stars  in  power  dwelling, 
Reigns  ever  and  forevermore. 

What  second  wish  should  we  be  hearing? 
The  majesty   of   fatherland! 
Destroyed  be  those  who  still  are  sneering ! 
Hail  them  who  with  it  fall  and  stand ! 
By  virtue  winning  admiration, 
85 


ROMANTIC  TIME 


Beloved  for  honesty  and  might, 
Long  live  through  centuries  our  nation, 
As  strong  in  honour  and  in  might ! 

The  third  is  German  manhood's  treasure- 
Ring  out  it  shall,  with  clearness  mete ! 
For  Freedom  is  the  German  pleasure, 
And  Germans  step  to  Freedom's  beat. 
Be  life  and  death  by  her  inspired — 
Of  German  hearts,  oh,  longing  bright! 
And  death  for  Freedom's  sake  desired 
Is  German  honour  and  delight. 

The  fourth — for  noble  consecration 
Now  lift  on  high  both  heart  and  hand ! 
Old  loyalty  within  our  nation 
And  German  faith  forever  stand! — 
These  virtues  shall,  our  weal  assuring, 
Remain  our  union's  shield  and  stay; 
Our  manly  word  will  be  enduring 
Until  the  world  shall  pass  away. 

Now  let  the  final  chord  be  ringing 
In  jubilee — stand  not  apart! 
Let  sound  our  mighty,  joyful  singing 
From  lip  to  lip,  from  heart  to  heart! 
The  weal  from  which  no  devils  bar  us, 
The  word  that  doth  our  league  infold — 
The  bliss  which  tyrants  cannot  mar  us 
We  must  believe  in,  we  must  hold! 
86 


NOVALIS 

(Pseud,    for    FRIEDRICH    VON     HARDEN- 
BERG) 

Born  1772  in  Wiederstedt.     Died  1801  in 
Weissenfels 

Ah,  When  He  Is  Mine 

Ah,  when  He  is  mine, 

When    I    hold    Him    fast, 

When  His  loyalty  divine 

Fills  my  heart  unto  the  last — 

I   feel  no  distress, 

Only  worship,  love  and  happiness. 

Ah,  when  He  is  mine, 

Gladly  I  leave  all, 

Rise  and  wander  at  His  sign, 

Faithful  to  my  Master's  call. 

Let  the  others  go 

On  the  broad  and  lighted  roads  they  know. 

Ah,  when  He  is  mine, 
I  can  sleep  in  calm, 
Ever  cheering  me  like  wine 
Is  His  heart's  sweet  healing  balm, 
87 


ROMANTIC  TIME 


Holding  us  in  thrall, 

Gently  soothing,  penetrating  all. 

Ah,  when  He  is  mine, 

Then   the  world's   mine,  too; 

As  a  seraph  at  her  shrine 

Holds  the  Virgin's  veil  of  blue — 

Blissful,  I  adore, 

Earthly  things  can  frighten  me  no  more. 

Ah,  where  He  is  mine, 

Is  my  fatherland; 

Like  my  share,  each  gift  divine 

Gently  falls  into  my  hand. 

Friends  who  went  astray 

Now  I  find  disciples  on  His  way. 


88 


ADALBERT  VON  CHAMISSO 

Born  1781   in  Castle   Boncourt  in  Champagne. 
Died   1803  in  Berlin 


From  "Woman's  Love  and  Life" 


Ah,  since  I  have  seen  him, 
I  believe  I'm  blind. 
Where  I  glance,  forever 
Him  alone  I  find. 
Evermore  his  image 
In  my  waking  dreams, 
Through  the  deepest  darkness 
Bright  and  joyous  gleams. 

Colourless  and  dreary 
All   is  on   my  way ! 
And  I  feel  so  weary 
When  my  sisters  play. 
I  would  fain  be  weeping, 
In  my  room  confined; 
Ah,  since  I  have  seen  him, 
I  believe  I'm  blind. 
89 


ROMANTIC  TIME 


ii 

I  cannot  grasp  or  believe  it, 
A  dream  has  bewitched  me  quite. 
Why  was  it  that  me  of  all  maidens 
He  raised  to  this  happiest  height? 

It  seemed  as  if  he  had  spoken: 

I  am  thine  eternally — 

It   seemed — I    still   must   be   dreaming! 

It  cannot,  cannot  be. 

Oh,  let  me  die  thus  dreaming, 
And  resting  upon  his  breast, 
My  death  in  ecstasy  drinking, 
In  tears  of  unending  rest! 


90 


MAX  VON  SCHENKENDORF 
Born  1783  in  Tilsit.    Died  1817  in  Koblenz 

Freedom 

Freedom  that  I  love, 
Shining  in  my  heart, 
Come  now  from  above, 
Angel  that  thou  art! 

To  the  world  oppressed 
Wilt  thou  ne'er  appear? 
Shall  but  stars  be  blessed 
With  thy  grace  and  cheer? 

In  the  forest  gay 
When  the  trees  are  green, 
'Neath  the  blooming  spray, 
Freedom,  thou  art  seen. 

Oh,  what  dear  delight! 
Music  fills  the  air, 
And  thy  secret  might 
Thrills  us  everywhere — 

When  the  rustling  boughs 
Friendly  greetings  send, 
91 


ROMANTIC  TIME 


When  we  lovers"  vows, 
Looks  and  kisses  spend. 

But  the  heart  aspires 
Upward  evermore, 
And  our   high   desires 
Toward  heaven  soar. 

From  his  simple  kind 
Comes  my  rustic  child, 
Shows  his  heart  and  mind 
To  the  world  beguiled. 

For  him  gardens  bloom, 
For  him  fields  have  grown, 
Even  in  the  gloom 
Of  a  world  of  stone. 

Where  within  a  breast 
Glows  a  God-sent  flame — 
Love  with  loyal  zest 
For  the  ancient  name, 

Where  all  men  unite 
Valiantly  to  face 
Foes  of  honour's  right — • 
There  dwells  freedom's  race. 

Ramparts,  brazen  doors 
Still  may  bar  the  light, 
92 


Yet  the  spirit  soars 
Into  regions  bright. 

For  the  fathers'  grave, 
For  the  church  to  fall 
And  for  dear  ones — brave, 
True  at  freedom's  call — 

That  indeed  is  light, 
Glowing   rosy-red : 
Heroes'  cheeks  grow  bright 
And  more  fair  when  dead. 

Toward  us,  oh,  guide 
Heaven's  grace,  we  pray; 
In  our  hearts  reside 
— German  hearts — to  stay! 

Freedom  sweet  and  fair, 
Trusting,  void  of  fear, 
German  nature  e'er 
Was  to  thee  most  dear. 


LUDWIG  UHLAND 
Born  1787  in  Tubingen.     Died  1862  in  Tubingen 

The  Hostess'  Daughter 

Three  fellows  were  marching  over  the  Rhine, 
They  stopped  where  they  saw  the  hostess*  sign. 

"Dear  hostess,  have  you  good  beer  and  wine? 
Where  have  you  your  daughter  so  fair  and  fine?" 

"My  beer  is  good,  my  wine  is  clear, 
My  daughter  is  lying  upon  the  bier." 

Now  into  the  chamber  she  led  the  way, 
There  in  a  black  coffin  the  maiden  lay. 

The  first  man  drew  the  veil  aside, 
And  full  of  sorrow  the  maid  espied. 

"Ah,  beautiful  maiden,  if  thou  couldst  live ! 
To  thee  alone  my  love  I  would  give !" 

The  second  laid  back  the  veil  again, 
And  turned  away  and  wept  in  pain. 

"Oh,  why  must  thou  lie  upon  the  bier ! 
Alas,  I  have  loved  thee  for  many  a  year." 
94 


LUDWIG  UHLAND 


The  third  man  lifted  again  the  veil, 
And  kissed  her  upon  the  lips  so  pale: 

"I  loved  thee  always,  I  love  thee  to-day, 
And  I  will  love  thee  forever  and  aye." 

The  Good  Comrade 

I  had  a  faithful  comrade, 
None  better  you  could  find. 
The  battle  drum  beat  gaily, 
He  marched  beside  me  daily, 
And  never  fell  behind. 

A  cannon  ball  came  flying — 
Is't  for  me  or  is't  for  thee? 
It  threw  him  down,  and  dying 
Before  my  feet  he's  lying, 
Just  like  a  part  of  me. 

His  hand  he  wants  to  give  me, 
While  I  must  load  anew; 
My  hand  cannot  be  given — 
Now  fare  thou  well  in  heaven, 
My  comrade  good  and  true! 

The  Nun 

In  the  quiet  convent  garden 
A  pallid  maiden  dreamed. 
The  moon  was  dim  above — 
95 


On  drooping  lashes  gleamed 
A  tear  of  tender  love. 

He  is  dead,  my  faithful  lover — 
What  blessedness  for  me ! 
Now  it  is  right  to  love: 
An  angel  he  will  be, 
And  angels  I  may  love. 

She  walked  with  steps  unsteady 
To  mother  Mary's  shrine; 
The  image,  wondrous  mild, 
Looked  in  the  pale  moonshine 
Upon  the  undefiled. 

She  sank  down,  gazing  upward, 
In  heavenly  peace  reposed, 
Until  her  eyelids  frail 
In  gentle  death  were  closed; 
Down  fell  the  long,  black  veil. 

The  Minstrel's  Curse 

In  olden  times  a  castle  stood  towering  high  and 
free: 

It  gleamed  far  over  the  country,  unto  the  deep 
blue  sea; 

The    gardens    round    were    fragrant,    in    glowing 
bloom  arrayed, 

And  glistening  like  the  rainbow,  the  limpid  foun- 
tains played. 

96 


LUDWIG  UHLAND 


There  sat  a  mighty  monarch  with  many  lands  his 
own, 

He  sat  so  pale  and  threatening  upon  his  mighty 
throne. 

For  what  he  thinks  is  terror  and  what  he  sees  is 
rage 

And  what  he  speaks  is  torture  and  blood  his  writ- 
ten page. 

There   travelled   to    this    castle   a    noble   minstrel 

pair, 
The  one  with  locks  of  gold  and  the  other  grey  of 

hair; 
And  with  his  harp  the  old  man  a  comely  charger 

rode, 
While  merrily  beside  him  his  young  companion 

strode. 

The  old  man  to  the  young  said:     "My  son,  take 

ample  care ! 
Our  deepest  songs  remember,  and  strike  thy  note 

most  rare. 
With  all  thy  might  put  sorrow  and  joy  into  thy 

tone! 
To-day  we  both  must  conquer  this  monarch's  heart 

of  stone." 

Before  the  lofty  pillars  the  minstrel  pair  is  seen; 
Upon  the  throne  are  sitting  the  monarch  and  his 
queen. 

97 


ROMANTIC  TIME 


The  king  is  fiercely  splendid,  like  bloody  north- 
ern light, 

The  queen  is  mild  and  lovely,  like  full  moon  in 
the  night. 

The  old  man  touched  his  harp  strings,  and — won- 
derful to  hear ! — 

Chords  fuller,  ever  fuller,  were  rising  to  the  ear; 

Then  high  the  young  man's  singing  most  heavenly 
limpid  streamed, 

The  old  man's  voice  sonorous  a  ghostly  chorus 
seemed. 

They  sing  of  love  and  springtime,  of  golden  days 

to  bless, 

Of  freedom,  manly  honour,  of  faith  and  holiness. 
They    sing    of    all    the    sweetness    that    trembles 

through  the  breast, 
They  sing  of  all  that's  lofty  and  fills  the  heart 

with  zest. 

The  courtiers   round  about  them  forget  to  mock 

and  sneer; 
Stern  warriors  before  heaven  all  bow  their  knees 

in  fear. 
The   queen  in  wistful  gladness   is   overcome  and 

throws 
Down  to  the  magic  minstrels  from  her  own  breast 

a  rose. 

98 


LUDWIG  UHLAND 


"You  have  beguiled  my  people,  beguile  you  now 

my  queen?" 
The  king  is   shouting   fiercely,  and  trembling  in 

his  spleen. 
He  throws  his  sword  that  flashing  has  pierced  the 

young  man's  heart: 
Thence   no   more   golden   ballads,   but   sprays   of 

lifeblood  start. 

And  scattered  as  by  tempest  is  all  the  listening 

swarm. 
The  youth  in  throes  is  dying  right  in  his  master's 

arm. 
He  wraps  the  mantle  round  him,  then  upright  on 

his  steed 
Binds  fast  the  youth  and  with  him  he  leaves  the 

hall  in  speed. 

Before  the  lofty  gateway  the  minstrel  old  and 
wise 

Stands  still  and  there  he  seizes  his  harp,  of  harps 
the  prize. 

Against  a  marble  pillar  this  noble  harp  he  flings. 

He  calls ;  through  halls  and  gardens  his  voice  un- 
canny rings: 

"Woe,  castle,  no  more  music  shall  sweep  thy  halls 

along, 
No  harp-strings  shall  resound  there,  and  no  more 

golden  song. 

99 


ROMANTIC  TIME 


Nay!     Only  sighs  and  groaning  and  sneaking  of 

the  slave, 
Till  crushed  by   spirit  of  vengeance  thou   art  a 

mouldy  grave. 

"Woe,  fragrant  gardens  blooming  so  fair  in  spring- 
time's grace ! 

To  you  I  show  this  dead  boy's  white  and  dis- 
torted face, 

That  you  henceforth  shall  wither,  that  every  spring 
be  dry, 

That  you  all  sere  and  barren  in  days  to  come  shall 
lie. 

"Woe,    thou   unholy   murderer!      Thou    curse    of 

minstrelsy ! 
Thy  strife  for  bloodstained  glory  all  times  in  vain 

shall  be; 
Thy  name  shall  be  forgotten,  steeped  in  eternal 

night, 
And,  like  a  dying  rattle,  in  empty  air  take  flight!" 

Thus  cried  the  ancient  minstrel,  and  heaven  heard 

his  call: 
The  pompous  halls  are  ruins,  low  lies  each  mighty 

wall. 

One  lofty  pillar  only  recalls  the  splendours  past; 
This  pillar,  cracked  already,  may  fall  to-night  at 

last. 

100 


LUDWIG  UHLAN D 


Where  once  were  scented  gardens  is  now  a  barren 
land, 

No  branches  shade  to  scatter,  no  spring  to  pierce 
the  sand; 

No  songs,  no  book  of  heroes  the  monarch's  name 
rehearse; 

Dissolved  in  night,  forgotten!  That  is  the  min- 
strel's curse. 


King  Charles'  Voyage 

With  comrades  twelve  upon  the  main 
King  Charles  set  out  to  sail. 
The  Holy  Land  he  hoped  to  gain, 
But  drifted  in  a  gale. 

Then  spake  Sir  Roland,  hero  brave: 
"Well,  I  can  fight  and  shield; 
Yet  neither  stormy  wind  nor  wave 
Will  to  my  weapon  yield." 

Sir  Holger  spake,  from  Denmark's  strand: 
"The  harp  I  fain  would  play; 
But  what  avails  the  music  bland 
When  tempests   roaring  sway !" 

Sir  Oliver  was  not  too  glad; 
Upon  his  sword  he'd  stare: 
"For  my  own  weal  'twere  not  so  bad — 
I  grieve  for  good  old  Clare." 
101 


ROMANTIC  TIME 


Said  wicked  Ganilon  with  gall 
(He  said  it  'neath  his  breath)  : 
"The  devil  come  and  take  ye  all — 
Were  I  but  spared  this  death!" 

Archbishop  Turpin  deeply  sighed: 
"The  knights  of  God  are  we. 
Oh,  come  our  Saviour,  be  our  guide, 
And  lead  us  o'er  the  sea!" 

Then  spake  Sir  Richard  Fearless  stern: 
"Ye  demons  there  in  hell, 
I  served  ye  many  a  goodly  turn, 
Now  serve  ye  me  as  well!" 

"My  counsel  often  has  been  heard," 
V       Sir  Naimes  did  remark. 

"Fresh  water,  though,  and  helpful  word 
Are  rare  upon  a  bark." 

Then,  spake  Sir  Riol,  old  and  gray: 
"An  aged  knight  am  I; 
/       And  they  shall  lay  my  corpse  away 
Where  it  is  good  and  dry." 

And  then  Sir  Guy  began  to  sing — 
He  was  a  courtly  knight: 
"Fain  I  would  have  a  birdie's  wing, 
And  to  my  love  take  flight!" 
102 


LUDWIG  UHLAND 


Then  Count  Garein,  the  noble,  said: 
"God,  danger  from  us  keep ! 
I'd  rather  drink  the  wine  so  red 
Than  water  in  the  deep." 

Sir  Lambert  spake,  a  sprightly  youth: 
"May  God  behold  our  state ! 
I'd  rather  eat  good  fish,  forsooth, 
Than  be  myself  a  bait." 

Then  quoth  Sir  Gottfried:     "Be  it  so, 
I  heed  not  how  I  fare: 
Whatever  I  must  undergo, 
My  brothers  all  would  share." 

But  at  the  helm  King  Charles  sat  by, 
And  never  said  a  word, 
And  steered  the  ship  with  steadfast  eye 
Till  no  more  tempest  stirred. 

Sudbian  Legend 

When  Emperor  Redbeard  with  his  band 
Came  marching  through  the  Holy  Land, 
He  had  to  lead,  the  way  to  seek, 
His  noble  force  o'er  mountains  bleak. 
Of  bread  there  rose  a  painful  need, 
Though  stones  were  plentiful  indeed, 
And  many  a  German  rider  fine 
Forgot  the  taste  of  mead  and  wine. 
103 


ROMANTIC  TIME 


The  horses  drooped  from  meagre  fare, 
The  rider  had  to  hold  his  mare. 
There  was  a  knight  from  Suabian  land 
Of  noble  build  and  mighty  hand; 
His  little  horse  was  faint  and  ill, 
He  dragged  it  by  the  bridle  still: 
His  steed  he  never  would  forsake, 
If  his  own  life  should  be  at  stake. 
And  so  the  horseman  had  to  stay 
Behind  his  band  a  little  way. 
Then  all  at  once,  right  in  his  course, 
Pranced  fifty  Turkish  men  on  horse. 
And  straight  a  swarm  of  arrows  flew, 
Their  spears  as  well  the  riders  threw. 
Our  Suabian  brave  felt  no  dismay, 
And  calmly  marched  along  his  way. 
His   shield  was  stuck  with  arrows  o'er, 
He  sneered  and  looked  about — no  more; 
Till  one,  whom  all  this  pastime  bored, 
Above  him  swung  a  crooked  sword. 
The  German's  blood  begins  to  boil, 
He  aims  the  Turkish  steed  to  foil, 
And  off  he  knocks  with  hit  so  neat 
The  Turkish  charger's  two  fore-feet. 
And  now  that  he  has  felled  the  horse, 
He  grips  his  sword  with  double  force 
And  swings  it  on  the  rider's  crown 
And  splits  him  to  the  saddle  down: 
He  hews  the  saddle  into  bits, 
And  e'en  the  charger's  back  he  splits. 
104 


LUDWIG  UHLAND 


See,  falling  to  the  right  and  left, 

Half  of  a  Turk  that  has  been  cleft! 

The  others  shudder  at  the  sight 

And  hie  away  in  frantic  flight, 

And  each  one  feels  with  gruesome  dread 

That  he  is  split  through  trunk  and  head. 

A  band  of  Christians,  left  behind, 

Came  down  the  road,  his  work  to  find: 

And  they  admired,  one  by  one, 

The  deed  our  hero  bold  had  done. 

From  these  the  Emperor  heard  it  all, 

And  bade  his  men  the  Suabian  call, 

Then   spake:      "Who   taught   thee,   honoured 

knight, 

With  hits  like  those  you  dealt,  to  fight?" 
Our  hero  said  without  delay: 
"These  hits  are  just  the  Suabian  way: 
Throughout  the  realm  all  men  admit, 
The  Suabians  always  make  a  hit." 

Free  Art 

Thou,  whom  song  was  given,  sing 
In  the   German   poets'   wood ! 
When  all  boughs  with  music  ring, 
Life  is  sweet  and  pleasure  good. 

Nay,  this  art  doth  not  belong 
To  a  small  and  haughty  band; 
Scattered  are  the  seeds  of  song 
All  about  the  German  land. 
105 


ROMANTIC  TIME 


Music  set  thy  passions  free 
From  the  heart's  confining  cage ! 
Let  thy  love  like  murmurs  be 
And  like  thunder-storms  thy  rage! 

Singest  thou  not  all  thy  days, 
Joy  of  youth  should  make  thee  sing. 
Nightingales  pour  forth  their  lays 
In  the  blooming  months  of  spring! 

Though  in  books  they  hold  not  fast 
What  the  hour  imparts  to  thee, 
\f~.     Stray  leaves  to  the  breezes  cast! 
Youth  will  seize  them  gratefully. 

Fare  thou  well,  thou  secret  lore: 
Necromancy,  alchemy ! 
Formulas  shall  bind  no  more, 
And  our  art  is  poesy. 

Names  we  deem  but  empty  air, 
Spirits  we  revere  alone; 
Though  we  honour  masters  rare, 
Art  is  free — it  is  our  own ! 

Not  in  haunts  of  marble  chill, 
Temples   drear  where  ancients   trod/- 
Nay, in  oaks  on  woody  hill 
Lives  and  moves  the  German  God. 

106 


JOSEPH  FREIHERR  VON  EICHENDORFF 
Born   1788  near   Ratibor.     Died   1857  in   Neisse 

The  Broken  Ring 

Down  in  a  cool,  green  valley 
A  millwheel  goes  all  day, 
And  there  my  love  would  dally — 
Now  she  is  gone  away. 

She  gave  a  ring  for  token 
And  pledged  her  faith  as  true: 
Her  faith — alas! — is  broken, 
The  ring  has  burst  in  two. 

I'd  be  a  fiddler  strolling, 
And  wander  far  from  home ! 
My  songs  forever  trolling, 
From  door  to  door  I'd  roam. 

I'd  be  a  rider,  flying 
Into  the  bloody  fight, 
By  quiet  campfires  lying 
Upon  the  field  at  night. 

I  hear  the  millwheel  going: 
I  know  not  what  I  will — 
107 


ROMANTIC  TIME 


I  wish  I  might  be  dying, 
Then  it  would  stand  quite  still. 


The  Last  Greeting 

My  way  from  the  woods  I  was  wending: 
There  stood  the  old  house  still. 
My  love,  as  of  old,  was  bending 
Far  over  the  window-sill. 

Another  man  she  has  taken, 

I  was  far  in  the  battle's  din. 

How  all  has  turned  out! — Ah,  forsaken, 

I  wish  a  new  war  would  begin! 

Her  child  at  the  wayside  was  playing; 
Such  likeness  to  her  it  bore! 
I  kissed  its  red  lips  while  saying: 
"God  bless  thee  f orevermore !" 

But  she  was  frightened;  I  wandered. 
She  lingered  and  gazed  after  me, 
And  shook  her  fair  locks  and  pondered, 
And  knew  not  who  I  might  be. 

The  woods  were  murmuring  gladly, 
I  stood  by  a  tree  on  the  height; 
My  hunter's  horn  I  blew  sadly: 
It  throbbed  as  in  dreams  through  the  night. 
108 


JOSEPH  FREIHERR   VON  EICHENDORFF 

At  morn,  when  the  songbirds  dally, 
She  wept  and  her  heart  was  sore. 
But  I  was  gone  far  from  the  valley; 
And  now  she  will  see  me  no  more. 

On  the  Death  of  My  Child 

From  far  the  clocks  are  ticking, 
Deep  midnight  spreads  its  shade; 
The  lamp  is  burning  dimly — 
Your  little  bed  is  made. 

Only  the  winds  are  wandering 
Around  the  house  and  moan, 
And  by  the  window  harking 
We  sit  inside,  alone. 

It  seems  as  if  you  gently 
Must  knock  upon  the  door: 
You'd  lost  your  way,  and  weary 
Had  wandered  home  once  more ! 

How  pitiful  our  folly! 
We  are  the  ones  who  roam, 
Lost  in  the  dreadful  darkness — 
You  long  have  found  your  home. 

Longing 

The  stars  were  so  golden  and  glistening; 
I   stood  by  the  window  alone, 
109 


ROMANTIC  TIME 


To  songs  of  the  post-horn  listening, 
O'er  silent  moorland  blown. 
My  heart  within  me  was  burning. 
"To  travel — ah,  what  delight!" 
I  thought  in  my  secret  yearning, 
In  the  glorious  summer  night. 

Two  merry  youths  were  walking 

By  the  slope  of  yonder  hill. 

I  heard  their  singing  and  talking, 

When  all  about  was  still: 

Of  woodlands  murmuring  mildly, 

Eavines  from  the  dizziest  height, 

Of  waterfalls  that  wildly 

Pour  into  the  forest's  night. 

They  sang  of  marble  shining, 
Of  garden  walls  o'er-grown, 
Where  vines  are  rampantly  twining, 
Of  moon-lit  palaces  lone, 
Where  maids  at  the  windows  are  rousing 
The  music  from  lutes  with  delight, 
Where  murmuring  fountains  are  drowsing 
In  the  glorious  summer  night. 


110 


FRIEDRICH  RUCKERT 

Born  1789  in  Schweinfurt.     Died  1866  near 
Koburg 

Ecstasy 

Oh,  thou  my  soul,  oh,  thou  my  heart, 
Thou  my  delight,  my  pain  thou  art ! 
Oh,  thou  my  world  in  which  I  move, 
My  heaven  where  I  soar  above, 
Oh,  thou  the  tomb  to  which  I  gave 
Forever  all  my  sorrow  grave. 

Thou  art  my  peace,  thou  art  my  rest, 
With  thee,  thou  heaven,  I  am  blessed. 
Thy  love  endows  me  in  mine  eyes, 
Thy  glance  my  own  life  glorifies. 
Through  thee  above  myself  I  fly, 
My  guiding  spirit,  my  better  I ! 

Chidher 

Chidher,  the  ever  youthful,  told: 
I  passed  a  city,  bright  to  see. 
A  man  was  culling  fruits  of  gold; 
I  asked  him  how  old  this  town  might  be. 
He  answered,  culling  as  before: 
111 


ROMANTIC  TIME 


"This  town  stood  ever  in  days  of  yore, 
And  will  stand  on  f  orevermore !" 

Five  hundred  years  from  yonder  day 
I  passed  again  the  self-same  way, 

And  of  the  town  I  found  no  trace. 

A  shepherd  blew  on  a  reed  instead; 

His  herd  was  grazing  on  the  place. 

"How  long,"  I  asked,  "is  the  city  dead?" 

He  answered,  blowing  as  before: 

"The  new  crop  grows  the  old  one  o'er; 

This  was  my  pasture  evermore !" 

Five  hundred  years   from  yonder  day 
I  passed  again  the  self-same  way. 

A  sea  I  found;  the  tide  was  full, 
A  sailor  emptied  nets  with  cheer; 
And  when  he  rested  from  his  pull, 
I  asked  how  long  that  sea  were  here. 
Then  laughed  he  with  a  hearty  roar: 
"As  long  as  waves  have  washed  this  shore 
They  fished  here  ever  in  days  of  yore." 
Five  hundred  years  from  yonder  day 
I  passed  again  the  self-same  way. 

I  found  a  forest  settlement, 
And  o'er  his  axe,  a  tree  to  fell, 
I  saw  a  man  in  labour  bent. 
How  old  this  wood  I  bade  him  tell. 
'  'Tis  everlasting;  long  before 
112 


FRIEDRICH  RUCKERT 


I  lived;  it  stood  in  days  of  yore," 

He  quoth;  "and  shall  grow  evermore." 

Five  hundred  years   from  yonder  day 
I  passed  again  the  self-same  way. 

I  saw  a  town;  the  market-square 

Was  swarming  with  a  noisy  throng. 

"How  long,"  I  asked,  "has  this  town  been  there? 

Where  are  wood  and  sea  and  shepherd's  song?" 

I  heard  them  cry  among  the  roar: 

"This  town  was  ever  so  before, 

And  so  will  live  forevermore." 

Five  hundred  years  from  yonder  day 
I  want  to  pass  the  self-same  way. 


113 


WILHELM  HEY 
Born  1790  in  Leina.     Died  1854  in  Ichtershausen 

Say,  How  Many  Stars  Are  Glowing 

Say,  how  many  stars  arc  glowing 
On  the  heavens'  deep  blue  dome? 
Say,  how  many  clouds  are  going, 
Over  all  the  world  to  roam? 
God  our  Lord  has  told  their  host, 
That  no  single  one  is  lost, 
Though  their  number  be  so  great. 

Say,  how  many  gnats  are  playing, 
In  the  summer  sunlight's  glow? 
Say,  how  many  fish  are  straying 
In  the  water's  limpid  flow? 
God  our  Lord  called  them  by  name, 
Straightway  into  life  they  came; 
Now  they  all  are  glad  and  gay. 

Say,  how  many  children  hurry, 
From  their  little  beds  to  rise, 
And,  untouched  by  care  or  worry, 
Pass  the  day  in  merry  wise? 
They  all  please  the  Lord  above, 
And  He  gives  them  all  His  love, 
Knows  thee  too  and  holds  thee  dear. 
114 


THEODOR  KORNER 

Born    1791    in    Dresden.      Killed    in    battle    1813 
near  Gadebusch   (Mecklenburg) 

Father,  I  Cdl  Thee! 

Father,  I  call  Thee ! 

Smoke  clouds  enwrap  me  and  cannons  are  crashing, 
Round  me  the  terrible  lightnings   are   flashing. 
Guide  of  all  battles,  I  call  Thee ! 
Father,  oh  guide  me ! 

Father,  oh  guide  me ! 

Guide  me  to  victory  and  to  death  lead  me: 
Lord,  Thy  commandments  I  know  and  I  heed  Thee ; 
Lord,  as  Thou  wiliest,  so  guide  me ! 
My  God,  I  heed  Thee ! 

My  God,  I  heed  Thee ! 

Once  amid  murmur  of  leaves   I  could  hear  Thee, 
Now  in  the  thunder  of  war  I  am  near  Thee. 
Fountain  of  mercy,  I  heed  Thee. 
Father,  oh  bless  me ! 

Father,  oh  bless  me! 
Into  Thy  hand  my  life  I  surrender: 
115 


ROMANTIC  TIME 


Thou  hast  bestowed  it,  so  take  it,  Defender ! 
Living  or  dying,  oh  bless  me ! 
Father,  I  praise  Thee! 

Father,  I  praise  Thee ! 

Not  for  the  goods  of  this  eartli  we  are  fighting: 
To  guard  the  holiest,  our  swords  are  smiting. 
Falling  in  triumph,  I  praise  Thee. 
My  God,  I  trust  Thee ! 

My  God,  I  trust  Thee ! 

When  all  the  thunders  of  death  are  roaring, 
When  from  my  veins  the  blood  is  pouring: 
My  life,  God,  I  trust  to  Thee! 
Father,  I  call  Thee! 


116 


WILHELM  MULLER 
Born  1794  in  Dessau.     Died  1827  in  Dessau 

Vineta 

From  the  deep,  deep  bottom  of  the  sea 
Sounds  the  muffled  toll  of  evening  bells, 
And   this    far-off   ringing   wondrously 
Of  the  fair,  old  wonder-city  tells. 

Sunk  beneath  the  flood  long,  long  ago, 
On  the  sand  the  city's  ruins  stay; 
Golden  gleams  from  battlements  below 
Brightly  mirrored  on  the  water  play. 

And  the  skipper  who  in  sunset  light 
Once  has  seen  the  necromantic  glow, 
To  the  selfsame  place  on  every  night, 
Though  the  cliffs  are  threatening,  must  row. 

From  the  deep,  deep  bottom  of  the  heart, 
Toll  of  muffled  bells  I  seem  to  hear; 
Ah,  such  wondrous  tidings  they  impart 
Of  the  love  that  once  was  held  most  dear. 

Sunk  into  the  depth  long,  long  ago, 
Of  a  lovely  world  the  ruins  stay — 
117 


ROMANTIC  TIME 


Heavenly  golden  gleams  from   far  below, 
In  the  mirror  of  my  dreams  they  play. 

Then  into  the  deep  I  want  to  fall, 
Steep  myself  in  all  the  magic  light, 
And  I  seem  to  hear  the  angels  call 
From  the  ancient  wonder-city's  site. 


118 


AUGUST  GRAF  VON  PLATEN 

Born  1796  in  Ansbach.     Died  1835  in  Syracuse 

m 

Sonnet 

Oh,  he  whose  pain  means  life,  whose  life  means 

pain 

May  feel  again  what  I  have  felt  before; 
Who  has  beheld  his  bliss  above  him  soar 
And,  when  he  sought  it,  fly  away  again; 

Who  in  a  labyrinth  has  tried  in  vain, 
When  he  has  lost  his  way,  to  find  a  door, 
Whom  love  has  singled  out  for  nothing  more 
Than  with  despondency  his  soul  to  bane; 

Who  begs  each  lightning  for  a  deadly  stroke, 
Each  stream  to  drown  the  heart  that  cannot  heal 
From  all  the  cruel  stabs  by  which  it  broke, 

Who  does  begrudge  the  dead  their  beds  like  steel 
Where  they  are  safe  from  love's  beguiling  yoke — 
He  knows  me  quite,  and  feels  what  I  must  feel. 


119 


ANNETTE  FREIIN  VON  DROSTE- 
HULSHOFF 

Born  1797  in  Hiilshoff  near  Miinster.     Died  1848 
in  Meersburg  by  the  Bodensee 

Last  Words 

When  I  am  gone,  brook  no  complaining, 
Beloved,  shed  no  tears,  I  pray! 
Where  I  shall  dwell,  there  peace  is  reigning, 
There  shines  an  everlasting  day. 

Where  earth's  great  misery  is  vanished, 
Your  images  shall  never  fade; 
I'll  pray  that  all  your  pain  be  banished, 
That  balm  upon  your  wounds  be  laid. 

At  night,  when  heavenly  peace  is  flying 
Above  the  world  that  sorrow  mars, 
Ah,  think  not  of  my  grave  with  sighing! 
For  then  I  greet  you  from  the  stars. 


120 


HEINRICH    HOFFMANN    VON    FALLERS- 
LEBEN 

Born    1798    in    Fallersleben    (Hannover).      Died 
1874  in  Corvey  (Westfalen) 

German  Land  Above  All  Others 

German  land,  above  all  others, 
Dear  above  all  other  lands, 
Like  a  faithful  host  of  brothers 
Evermore  united  stands, 
And  from  Maas  to  farthest  Memel 
As  from  Etch  to  Belt  expands: 
German  land  above  all  others, 
Dear  above  all  other  lands! 

German  faith  and  German  women, 
German  wine  and  German  song 
In  the  world  shall  keep  the  beauties 
That  of  old  to  them  belong; 
Still  to  noble  deeds  inspiring, 
They  shall  always  make  us  strong — 
German  faith  and  German  women, 
German  wine  and  German  song! 

Union,  right  and  freedom  ever 
For  the  German  fatherland! 
121 


ROMANTIC  TIME 


So  with  brotherly  endeavour 
Let  us  strive  with  heart  and  hand ! 
For  a  bliss  that  wavers  never 
Union,   right   and    freedom   stand — 
In  this  glory  bloom  forever, 
Bloom,  my  German  fatherland! 


122 


LUISE  HENSEL 

Born  1798  in  Linum  (Brandenburg).     Died  1876 
in  Paderborn 

Child's  Prayer 

I  am  weary,  seek  repose, 
Both  my  little  eyes  I  close. 
Father,  let  Thine  eyes  so  bright 
Watch  above  my  bed  all  night! 

If  I  have  done  wrong  to-day, 
Then  forgive  it,  Lord,  I  pray ! 
For  Thy  grace  and  Jesus'  blood 
Make  all  harm  and  sorrow  good. 

All  my  kin,  O  God,  let  rest 
In  Thy  hand,  and  keep  them  blessed. 
Friends  and  strangers,  big  and  small, 
Shall  be  in  Thy  keeping  all. 

Send  to  aching  hearts  repose, 
Tearful  eyes,  I  pray  Thee,  close: 
And  the  moon  in  Heaven  keep, 
Gazing  on  the  world  asleep. 
123 


HEINRICH  HEINE 
Born  1799  in  Diisseldorf.     Died  1856  in  Paris 

Thou  Seemest  Like  a  Flower 

Thou  seemest  like  a  flower, 
So  fair  and  pure  thou  art; 
I  look  on  thee  and  sadness 
Comes  stealing  through  my  heart. 

And  now  I  feel  like  resting 
My  hands  upon  thy  hair, 
Praying  that  God  may  keep  thee 
So  lovely,  pure  and  fair. 

I  Dreamed  a  Princess  Came  to  Me 

I  dreamed  a  princess  came  to  me 
With  pale  and  tearful  face. 
We  sat  beneath  the  linden  tree 
In  lovers'  fond  embrace. 

"I  do  not  want  thy  father's  throne, 
Nor  yet  his  sceptre  of  gold, 
His  diamond  crown  I  would  not  own — 
Thee,  fairest,  I  want  to  hold." 
124 


HEINRICH  HEINE 


"That  may  not  be,"  she  spake  to  me, 
"I  lie  in  my  grave  below — 
Only  at  night  I  come  to  thee, 
Because  I  love  thee  so." 

The  Lotos  Flower 

The  lotos  flower  trembles 
In  fear  of  the  sunshine  bright, 
And  with  her  head  cast  downward 
Waits  dreaming  for  the  night. 

She  is  waked  by  the  moon,  her  lover, 
By  moonbeams'  light  embrace, 
And  she  unveils  in  kindness 
Her  gentle  flower  face. 

She  blooms  and  glows  and  shining 
All  silent  looks  above: 
With  tears  and  fragrance  she  trembles 
In  love  and  the  woe  of  love. 

The  Fir-tree 

A  fir-tree  stands  so  lonely 
On  barren  northern  height. 
Drowsy  it  grows;  the  snowdrift 
Has  wrought  it  a  mantle  white. 

It  dreams  of  a  distant  palm-tree, 
That  in  some  eastern  land 
125 


ROMANTIC  TIME 


Alone,  in  silence  mourning, 
On  a  burning  cliff  must  stand. 

I  Bear  No  Anger 

I  bear  no  anger,  though  my  heart  must  break, 
Love  lost  forever !    No,  not  for  thy  sake. 
Resplendent  though  thou  be  with  diamonds  bright, 
No  beam  can  fall  into  thy  bosom's  night. 

I  knew  it  long.    In  dreams  I  Saw  thee  still, 
And  then  I  saw  thy  heart  with  darkness  fill, 
I  saw  the  serpent  gnawing  at  thy  heart, 
Saw,  love,  how  wretched  and  forlorn  thou  art. 

The  Rock  with  Runes 

There  looms  in  the  sea  the  rock  with  runes — 
I  sit  with  my  memory  roaming. 
The  wind  and  the  seagulls  shriek  their  tunes, 
The  waves  are  wandering  and  foaming. 

I  loved — ah,  many  a  dearest  child, 
And  many   a  comrade  yonder ! 
Where  are  they  gone?   The  wind  is  wild, 
The  waves — they  foam  and  wander. 

On  Wings  of  Song 

On  wings   of  song — ah,   lightly, 
Heart's  dearest,  I  bear  thee  away: 
126 


HEINRICH  HEINE 


A  nook  is  beckoning  brightly 
Where  Ganges'  waters  play. 

A  blooming  red  garden  is  lying 
In  moonlight  calm  and  clear, 
The  lotos  flowers  are  sighing 
For  thee,  their  sister  dear. 

The  violets  banter  and  slyly 
They  peep  at  the  star-rays  pale, 
The  roses  are  whispering  shyly 
Some  fragrant  fairy-tale. 

The  gentle  gazelles  come  leaping, 
And  hearken  what  we  say; 
The  sacred  river  is  sweeping 
And  murmuring  far  away. 

Beloved,  let  us  be  sinking 
Under  the  shady  palm, 
The  blissful  quiet  drinking 
And  dreaming  dreams  of  balm. 

The  Lorelei/ 

I  know  not  what  evermore  grieves  me, 
What  makes  me  sorrow  so: 
A  tale  of  old  times  never  leaves  me, 
A  tale  of  long  ago. 

127 


ROMANTIC  TIME 


'Tis  cool  and  the  shadows  are  growing, 
And  calmly  flows  the  Rhine, 
The  peak  of  the  mountain  is  glowing 
Where  evening  sunrays  shine. 

There  sits  the  most  beautiful  maiden 
On  high,  so  wondrous  fair, 
With  glittering  gems  she  is  laden, 
She  combeth  her  golden  hair. 

Her  golden  comb  doth  glisten, 
She  sings  a  song  the  while, 
The  tune  for  all  that  listen 
Has  power  to  beguile. 

The  man  in  the  boat  is  harking, 
He's  seized  with  wild,  wild  woe, 
And  never  the  rock-reefs  marking, 
He  gazes  on  high  from  below. 

The  waves,  I  believe,  will  be  flinging 
The  man  from  his  boat  to  die; 
And  all  that  from  the  singing — 
The  lay  of  the  Loreley ! 

Two  Grenadiers 

To  France  there  wandered  two  grenadiers, 
In  Russia  once  captives  made. 
To  German  quarters  they  came  after  years, 
And  bowed  their  heads,  dismayed. 
128 


HEINRICH  HEINE 


And  there  they  were  sorrowful  tidings   told 
That  France  was  lost — and  repelled, 
Destroyed  and  defeated  the  army  bold — 
And  the  emperor  captive  held. 

The  grenadiers  wept  grievously 
When  told  this  mournful  lore. 
Then  said  the  one:    "Ah,  woe  is  me, 
How  my  old  wound  is  sore!" 

"The  song  is  sung"  the  other  said, 
"I  too  would  die  with  thee; 
But  wife  and  child,  if  I  were  dead, 
Would  perish  utterly." 

"For  wife  and  child  what  do  I  care! 
Far  better  longings  I  know: 
As  hungry  beggars  let  them  fare — 
My  emperor,  emperor — woe! 

"But  grant  me,  brother,  one  only  prayer: 

Now  when  I  here  shall  die, 

My  body  take  to  France  and  there 

In  French  earth  let  me  lie! 

"My  cross  of  honour  with  scarlet  band 
Upon  my  heart  be  placed; 
And  put  my  gun  into  my  hand, 
My  sword  gird  round  my  waist! 
129 


ROMANTIC  TIME 


"Then  quietly  I'll  lie  and  hark, 
A  sentry  in  my  tomb, 
Till  I  the  horses'  prancing  mark, 
And  hear  the  cannon's  boom. 

"Then  my  emperor  rides  across  my  grave, 
And  swords  will  be  clashing  hard: 
And  armed  I'll  rise  up  from  my  grave, 
My  emperor  to  guard !" 


ISO 


WILHELM  HAUFF 
Born  1802  in  Stuttgart.     Died  1827  in  Stuttgart 

Morning  Glow 

Morning  glow,  morning  glow, 
For  my  death  thou  gleamest  so; 
Soon  the  trumpet  will  be  blowing, 
Unto  death  I  must  be  going, 
I  and  many  comrades  too. 

Ere   we've   thought,    ere   we've   thought, 
Joy  unto  an  end  is  brought. 
Yesterday  on  proud  steeds  flying, 
Shot  to-day,  in  anguish  lying, 
And  to-morrow  in  the  grave. 

Soon,  alas,  soon,  alas, 
Strength  and  beauty  have  to  pass. 
Though  in  youthful  pride  thou  glowest, 
Cheeks  so  fair  and  ruddy  showest: 
Ah,  the  roses  all  must  fade ! 

To  what  end,  to  what  end 
Doth  man's  joy  and  cunning  tend? 
Under  care  and  sorrow  bending, 
131 


ROMANTIC  TIME 


He  must  follow  toil  unending 
E'en  from  morning  until  night. 

So  be  still,  so  be  still ! 
I  will  yield  to  God's  own  will, 
Fight  with_  spirit  when  they  call  me, 
And  if  death  should  soon  befall  me, 
Then  there  dies  a  rider  brave. 


132 


NIKOLAUS  LENAU 


Like  the  flight  of  dreams,  so  fast 
Peaceful  hamlets  vanished ! 

Girded  round  by  joys  of  spring 
Lay  a  graveyard  yonder, 
Wanderers  admonishing 
There  to  halt  and  ponder. 

Gray  against  the  mountainside, 
Ancient  walls  were  leaning; 
Sadly  stood  the  Crucified 
High,  in  silent  meaning. 

On  my  rider's  spirits  gay 
Sadness  fell,  subduing, 
And  he  made  the  horses  stay; 
Spoke,  the  Cross  there  viewing: 

"Horse  and  wheel  must  stop  right  here, 
Though  it  may  be  trying: 
Yonder  is  my  comrade  dear 
In  the  cool  earth  lying. 

'  'Twas  a  fellow  good  and  true — 
Sir,  it  is  a  pity ! 
No  one  like  my  comrade  blew 
On  the  horn  a  ditty. 

"Here  I  always  stop  and  blow 
Songs  dear  to  the  other 
135 


ROMANTIC  TIME 


Lying  in  the  earth  below — 
Greetings  from  a  brother !" 

To  the  churchyard  songs  of  cheer 
He  sent  gaily  swelling; 
These  should  reach  the  brother's  ear 
In  his  peaceful  dwelling. 

Far  the  bugle's  voice  was  borne, 
From  the  mountains  ringing, 
And  the  dead  postillion's  horn 
Seemed  to  join  the  singing. 

On  we  rode  with  slackened  rein, 
Through  the  landscape  bounding; 
Long  the  echo's  glad  refrain 
In  my  ears  was  sounding. 


136 


JOHANN  NEPOMUK  VOGL 

Born  1802  in  Vienna.     Died  1866  in  Vienna 


The  Recognition 

A  wandering  youth  with  a  cane  in  his  hand 
Comes  home  again  from  a  foreign  land. 

His  hair  is  dusty,  his  face  is  brown; 

Who  will  know  him  first  in  the  little  town? 


He  enters  the  town  by  the  ancient  gate. 
At  the  toll-bar  leans  a  former  mate: 

The  publican  once  was  a  cherished  friend, 
Gay  hours  at  the  tavern  they  used  to  spend. 

But  see,  his  old  comrade  knows  him  not: 
His  face  is  so  sunburnt  that  he  is  forgot. 

The  youth  wanders  on  with  a  greeting  fleet, 
And  shakes  off  the  dust  from  his  tired  feet. 

From  a  window  his  love  looks  with  gentle  eyes. 
"Be  welcome,  oh,  loveliest  maiden !"  he  cries. 
137 


ROMANTIC  TIME 


See,  even  the  maiden  knows  him  not: 
His  face  is  so  sunburnt  that  he  is  forgot. 

So  on  he  is  strolling  across  the  town: 

A  tear  gleams  bright  on  his  cheek  so  brown. 

There  totters  his  mother  from  the  church-door. 
"God  bless  you!"  he  says,  and  nothing  more. 

But  see,  his  old  mother  is  sobbing  with  joy: 
"My  son !" — And  she  sinks  on  the  breast  of  her  boy. 

No  matter  how  sunburnt  his  face  has  grown, 
By  a  mother's  eye  he  is  straightway  known. 


138 


EDUARD  MORIKE 

Born   1804  in  Ludwigsburg.     Died   1875   in 
Stuttgart 

The  Forsaken  Maiden 

Early  when  cocks  still  crow, 
Ere  the  stars  retire, 
I  to  the  stove  must  go 
To  start  the  fire. 

Beautiful  gleams   the  blaze, 
Sparks  gaily  glow, 
And  so  I  gaze  and  gaze, 
All  lost  in  woe. 

Then  it  comes  over  me, 
Thou  faithless  lad: 
Last  night  I  dreamed  of  thee, 
All  dreams  I  had. 

Tear  upon  tear  must  run 
Wildly  anon: 
Thus  is  the  day  begun — • 
Would  it  were  gone ! 
139 


ERNST  FREIHERR  VON  FEUCHTERS- 
LEBEN 

Born  1806  in  Vienna.     Died  1849  in  Vienna 

It  Has  Been  Willed  in  God's  Decree 

It  has  been  willed  in  God's  decree: 
What  you  have  loved  most  tenderly, 
You  part  with, 

Though  there  is  nothing  on  the  earth 
That  leaves  the  heart  such  sorry  dearth 
As  parting,  aye,  parting. 

A  rosebud  in  a  water  glass, 

A  lovely  gift,  you  watch — alas, 

Remember: 

The  rose  that  blooms  to-morrow  bright, 

Must  wither  sadly  in  the  night, 

Remember,  remember! 

When  God  has  given  you  a  love, 
You  hold  her  dear,  all  else  above, 
In  keeping: 

Not  many  years  will  then  be  flown, 
Before   she  leaves  you  all  alone, 
With  weeping,  with  weeping. 

140 


BOOK  IV 
MODERN  TIME 


FERDINAND    FREILIGRATH 
Born  1810  in  Detmold.     Died  1876  in  Kannstadt 

The  Duration  of  Love 

Oh,  love  as  long  as  you  can  love, 

Oh,  love  as  long  as  love  you  may ! 

The  hour  will  come,  the  hour  will  come: 

By  graves  lamenting  you  will  stay. 

And  ever  keep  your  heart  aglow, 
And  let  it  foster  love  with  care, 
As  long  as  still  another  heart 
Beats  with  it  warmly  anywhere. 

If  one  unseals  his  breast  to  you, 

Ah,  do  him  all  the  good  you  can — 

And  all  his  hours  with  gladness  fill, 

And    grieve    him    not    for    one    hour's    span ! 

Your  tongue — ah,  hold  it  well  in  check ! — 

Is  quick  to  say  an  evil  word. 

Oh  God,  it  was  not  meant  so  ill ! 

Yet  pained  he  turns  away  who  heard. 

Oh,  love  as  long  as  you  can  love, 
Oh,  love  as  long  as  love  you  may ! 
143 


MODERN  TIME 


The  hour  will  come,  the  hour  will  come: 
By  graves  lamenting  you  will  stay. 

Then  you  kneel  down  before  the  grave, 
And  hide  your  tearful  eyes — alas ! 
They  see  the  loved  one  now  no  more — 
In  long  and  dewy  graveyard  grass, 

And  say:    "Look  down  upon  me  here 
Who  by  your  grave  am  weeping  still; 
Forgive  that  I   have  given  pain: 
Oh  God,  it  was  not  meant  so  ill!" 

He  sees  you  not  and  hears  you  not, 
And  seeks  not  your  embrace — ah,  no, 
The  lips  that  kissed  you  oft,  no  more 
Say:    "I  forgave  you  long  ago." 

He  did  forgive  you  long  ago, 
And  hot  fell  many  a  tear  as  toll 
For  you  and  for  your  bitter  word — 
But  hush ! — He's  resting  at  his  goal. 

Oh,  love  as  long  as  you  can  love, 
Oh,  love  as  long  as  love  you  may! 
The  hour  will  come,  the  hour  will  come: 
By  graves  lamenting  you  will  stay! 


144 


EMANUEL  GEIBEL 
Born  1815  in  Ltibeck.     Died  1884  in  Liibeck 

Wanderer's  Joy 

The  May-time  has  come  and  the  trees  are  budding 

fair; 
Then  stay,  all  who  want  to,  at  home  with  toil  and 

care ! 
As  the  clouds  are  wandering  along  the  heavenly 

dome, 
So  my  heart  is  longing  the  wide  world  to  roam. 

Farewell,  father,  mother,  may  God  you  ever  bless ! 
Who  knows  where,  far  from  here,  I'll  find  happi- 
ness! 

There  are  many  roads  still,  I  never  have  spied, 
There  are  many  wines,  too,  I  never  yet  have  tried. 

So  up  and  about  in  the  gay  sunlight's  glow, 
Far  over  the  mountains,  through  valleys  to  go ! 
The  trees  murmur  gladly,  the  springs  leap  along, 
My  heart's  like  the  lark  and  it  joins  in  the  song. 

At  night,  in  the  village,  I  stop  at  a  sign: 
"Sir  landlord,  sir  landlord,  a  jug  of  cool  wine! 
145 


MODERN  TIME 


You  jolly  good  fiddler,  take  your  fiddle  and  play! 
About  my  dear  sweetheart  I'll  sing  you  a  lay." 

And  if  I  find  no  shelter,  I'll  lie  in  the  night 
Beneath   the   dark  blue  heavens,  while   stars   are 

watching  bright; 

The  wind  in  the  lindens  will  lull  me  into  dreams, 
At  dawn  I'll  be  roused  by  the  morning  sunbeams. 

To  wander,  to  wander — oh,  youth's  happy  zest, 
When  God's  breath  is  blowing  so  freely  through 

the  breast! 

Then  unto  high  heaven  sings  the  jubilant  heart: 
Oh,  wide  world,  I  greet  thee,  how  beautiful  thou 

art! 

Evening 

Now  that   shadows   deepen, 
Star  by  star  grows  bright, 
What  a  breath  of  longing 
•Floods   the   silent  night! 

Through  the   sea  of  visions, 
Restless  for  its  goal, 
All  my  soul  is  steering 
Ever  toward  thy  soul. 

Take  my  soul,  surrendered 
Quite  to  thee  alone; 
Ah,  thou  knowest:  never 
Can  I  be  mine  own! 
146 


THEODOR  STORM 
Born  1817  in  Husum.     Died  1888  near  Husum 

The  City 

The  shore  is  gray,  the  sea  is  gray, 
And  there  the  city  stands ; 
The  mists  upon  the  houses  weigh, 
And  through  the  calm  the  ocean  gray 
Roars  dully  on  the  strands. 

There   are   no   rustling   woods,   there   fly 
No  singing  birds  in  May; 
The  wild  goose  with  its  callous  cry 
Alone  on  autumn  nights  soars  by; 
The  wind-blown  grasses  sway. 

And  yet  my  whole  heart  clings  to  thee, 
Gray  city  by  the  sea; 
And  e'er  the  spell  of  youth  for  me 
Doth  smiling  rest  on  thee,  on  thee 
Gray  city  by  the  sea. 

The  Heath 

It  is  so  quiet  here.    There  lies 
The  heath  in  noon's  warm  sunshine  gold. 
147 


MODERN  TIME 


A  gleam  of  light,  all  rosy,  flies 
And  hovers  round  the  tombstones  old. 
The  herbs  are  blooming;  fragrance  fair 
Now  fills  the  bluish  summer  air. 

The  beetles  rush  through  bush  and  trees, 
In  little  golden  coats  of  mail; 
And  on  the  heather-bells  the  bees 
Alight,  on  all  the  branches  frail. 
From  out  the  grass  there  starts  a  throng 
Of  larks  and  fills  the  air  with  song. 

A  lonely  house,  half-crumbled,  low: 
The  farmer,  in  the  doorway  bent, 
Stands  watching  in  the  sunlight's  glow 
The  busy  bees  in  sweet  content. 
And  on  a  stone  near  by  his  boy 
Is  carving  pipes  from  reeds  with  joy. 

Scarce  trembling  through  the  peace  of  noon, 
The  town-clock  strikes — from  far,  it  seems. 
The  old  man's  lids  are  drooping  soon, 
And  of  his   honey  crops   he  dreams. — 
The  sounds  that  fill  our  time  of  stress 
Have  not  yet  reached  this  loneliness. 

In  the  Wood 

(From  "Immensee"). 

The  wind  upon  the  hillside 
Is  hushed — the  air  is  mild. 
148 


THE  ODOR  STORM 


And  here  the  boughs  are  drooping; 
Beneath  them  sits  the  child. 

Amid  the  thyme  she's  sitting, 
Within  the  fragrance  rare, 
While  bluish  flies  are  flitting 
And  gleaming  through  the  air. 

The  forest  is  so  silent, 
So  wise  and  keen  her  glance; 
And  round  her  brown  hair  curling 
The  glowing  sunbeams  dance. 

I  hear  the  cuckoo's  laughter — 
And  through  my  spirit  flies 
The  thought  that  she  has  truly 
The  wood-queen's  golden  eyes. 

Elisabeth's  Song 

(From  "Immensee"} 

All  was  for  my  mother's  sake: 
The  other  man  she  made  me  take ! 
What  it  had  owned  before 
My  heart  should  know  no  more, 
But  could  not  thus   forsake. 

Mother,  I'm  accusing  you: 
Good  to  me  you  did  not  do; 
The  world  would  have  esteemed 
149 


MODERN  TIME 


What  now  a  sin  is  deemed. 
What  shall  I  do! 

Now  fled  is  joy  and  pride, 
But  sorrow  must  abide. 
Oh,  would  this  were  not  so. 
Could  I  a-begging  go, 
Over  the  brown  heath  wide! 

To  a  Deceased 

But  this  is  more  than  I  can  bear, 
That  still  the  laughing  sun  is  bright, 
As  in  the  days  when  you  were  there, 
That  clocks   are   striking,   unaware, 
And  mark  the  change  of  day  and  night — 

That  we,  as  twilight  dims  the  air, 

Assemble  when  the  day  is  done, 

And  that  the  place  where  stood  your  chair 

Already  many  others  share, 

And  that  you  seem  thus  missed  by  none; 

When  meanwhile,  from  the  gate  below, 
The  narrow  strips  of  moonlight  spare 
Into  your  vault  down  deeply  go, 
And  with  a  ghostly  pallid  glow 
Are  stealing  o'er  your  coffin  there. 


150 


FRIEDRICH  VON  BODENSTEDT 

Born  1819  in  Peine   (Hannover).     Died  18Q2  in 
Wiesbaden 


The  Rose  Complained 

(From   the  "Songs   of  Mirza  Schaffy") 

The  rose  complained,  her  fragrance  fled, 

Ah,  far  too  swiftly  it  was  going — 

The  lovely  scent  that  spring  was   giving. 

And  then  to  comfort  her  I  said, 

Her  fragrance  through  my  songs  was  flowing, 

And  there  forevermore  was  living. 


151 


THEODOR  FONTANE 
Born  1819  in  Neuruppin.     Died   1898  in  Berlin 

Sir  Ribbeck  of  Ribbeck 

Sir  Ribbeck  of  Ribbeck  in  Havelland — 
A  pear-tree  in  his  yard  did  stand; 
And  in  the  golden  autumn-tide, 
When  pears  were  shining  far  and  wide, 
Sir  Ribbeck,  when  barely  the  bells  had  struck  noon, 
Would  stuff  both  his  pockets  with  pears  right  soon. 
If  a  boy  in  clogs  would  come  his  way, 
He  would  call:   "My  boy,  have  a  pear  to-day?" 
To  a  girl  he'd  call:   "Little  maid  over  there, 
Now  come  here  to  me,  and  I'll  give  you  a  pear !" 
And  thus  he  did  ever,  as  years  went  by, 
Till  Sir  Ribbeck  of  Ribbeck  came  to  die. 
He  felt  his  end  coming;  'twas  autumn-tide, 
And  the  pears  were  laughing,  far  and  wide. 
Then  spoke  Sir  Ribbeck:  "And  now  I  must  die. 
Lay  a  pear  in  my  grave,  beside  me  to  lie !" 
From  the  double-roofed  house,  in  three  days  more, 
Sir  Ribbeck  to  his  grave  they  bore. 
All  the  peasants  and  cotters  with  solemn  face 
Did  sing:   "Lord  Jesus,  in  Thy  Grace" — 
152 


THEODOR  FONTANE 


And  the  children  moaned  with  hearts  of  lead: 
"Who  will  give  us  a  pear?   Now  he  is  dead." 

Thus  moaned  the  children — that  was  not  good! — • 
Not  knowing  old  Ribbeck  as  they  should. 
Young  Ribbeck — alas  ! — is  a  miser  hard ; 
Over  park  and  pear-tree  he  keeps  stern  guard. 
But  the  old,  who  this  doubtless  could  foretell, 
Distrusting  his  son — he  knew  right  well 
What  he  was  about  when  he  bade  them  lay 
A  pear  in  his  grave,  on  his  dying  day: 
Out  of  his  silent  haunt  in  the  third  year 
A  little  pear-tree  shoot  did  soon  appear. 
And  many  a  year  now  comes  and  goes, 
But  a  pear-tree  on  the  grave  there  grows, 
And  in   the   golden   autumn-tide 
The  pears  are  shining  far  and  wide. 
When  a  boy  o'er  the  grave-yard  wends  his  way,. 
The  tree  whispers:     "Boy,  have  a  pear  to-ray?" 
To  a  girl  it  says:    "Little  maid  over  there, 
Come  here  to  me  and  I'll  give  you  a  pear!" 
So  there  are  blessings  still  from  the  hand 
Of  Sir  Ribbeck  of  Ribbeck  in  Havelland. 

The  Bridge  by  the  Tay 

(When   shall    me   three   meet   again? — MACBETH) 

"When  shall  we  three  meet  again?" 
"The  dam  of  the  bridge  at  seven  attain!" 
153 


MODERN  TIME 


"By  the  pier  in  the  middle.   I'll  put  out  amain 
The  flames." 

"I  too." 

"I'll  come  from  the  north." 
"And  I  from  the  south." 

"From  the  sea  I'll  soar  forth." 
"Ha,  that  will  be  a  merry-go-round! 
The  bridge  must  sink  into  the  ground." 
"And  with  the  train  what  shall'  we  do 
That  crosses  the  bridge  at  seven?" 
"That  too." 
"That  must  go  too !" 

"A  bauble,  a  naught, 
What  the  hand  of  man  hath  wrought!" 

The  bridgekeeper's  house  that  stands  in  the  north — 

All  windows  to  the  south  look   forth, 

And  the   inmates   there  without  peace   or  rest 

Are  gazing  southward  with  anxious   zest. 

They  gaze  and  wait  a  light  to  spy 

That  over  the  water  "I'm  coming!"  should  cry, 

"I'm  coming — night  and  storm  are  vain — 

I,  from  Edinburg  the  train!" 

And  the  bridgekeeper  says:    "I  see  a  gleam 
On  the  other  shore.    That's  it,  I  deem. 
Now,  mother,  away  with  bad  dreams,   for,  see, 
Our  Johnnie  is  coming! — He'll  want  his  tree. 
And  what  is  left  of  candles,  light 
As  if  it  were  on  Christmas  night! 
154 


THEODOR  FONTANE 


Twice  we  shall  have  our  Christmas  cheer — 
In   eleven  minutes  he  must  be  here." 

It  is  the  train,  with  the  gale  it  vies 

And  panting  by  the  south  tower  flies. 

"There's   the   bridge   still,"    says    Johnnie.      "But 

that's  all  right: 

We'll  make  it  surely  out  of  spite ! 
A  solid  boiler  and  double  steam 
Should  win  in  such  a  fight,  'twould  seem! 
Let  it  rave  and  rage  and  run  at  its  bent — 
We'll  put  it  down:  this  element! 
And  our  bridge  is  our  pride.    I  must  laugh  always 
When  I  think  back  of  the  olden  days, 
And  all  the  trouble  and  misery 
That  with  the  old  boat  used  to  be. 
And  many  cheerful  Christmas  nights 
I  spent  at  the  ferryman's  house — the  lights 
From  our  windows  I'd  watch  and  count  them  o'er, 
And  could  not  reach  the  other  shore." 

The  bridgekeeper's  house  that  stands  in  the  north — 
All  windows  to  the  south  look  forth, 
And  the  inmates  there  without  peace  or  rest 
Are  gazing  southward  with  anxious  zest: 
More  furious  grew  the  wind's  Avild  games, 
And  now,  as  if  the  sky  poured  flames, 
Comes  shooting  down  a  radiance  bright 
O'er  the  water  below. — Then  all  is  night. 
155 


MODERN  TIME 


"When  shall  we  three  meet  again?" 
"At  midnight  the  top  of  the  mountain  attain!" 
"By  the  alder-stem  on  the  high  moorland  plain!" 
"I'll  come." 

"And   I   too." 

"And  the  number  I'll  tell." 
"And  I  the  names." 

"I  the  torture  right  well." 
"Whoo ! 

"Like  splinters  the  woodwork  crashed  in 

two." 

"A  bauble — a  naught. 
What  the  hand  of  man  hath  wrought!" 


156 


GOTTFRIED  KELLER 
Born  1819  near  Zurich.     Died  1890  in  Zurich 

Song  of  the  Evening 

You  my  eyes,  my  little  windows  dear, 
Leave  me  yet  a  while  your  vision  clear, 
Welcome  many  pictures  in  with  cheer — 
Sometime  soon  you  will  be  dark  and  drear! 

And  when  once  these  weary  lids  shall  close, 
Then  the  soul  shall  rest — when  darkness  grows; 
Groping,  off  she  strips  her  shoes  and  goes 
In  her  coffin  black  to  find  repose. 

Still  she  sees  two  little  sparks  that  gleam: 
Like  two  tiny  inward  stars  they  beam, 
Till  they  fade  and  vanish  like  a  dream; 
Blown  away  by  moth-wings'  beat  they  seem. 

Yet  I'm  wandering  still  at  eventide, 
Only  fading  stars  as  friends  abide. 
Drink,  my  eyes,  whate'er  can  be  espied 
Of  the  glories  in  this  world  so  wide ! 
157 


MODERN  TIME 


Winter  Night 

Not  a  wing  was  beating  in  the  night, 
Dazzling  white   and   peaceful  lay  the   snow, 
Not  a  cloud  hung  o'er  the  starry  light, 
Frozen  was  the  lake — all  calm  below. 

There  a  tree  was  growing  from  the  deep, 
In  the  ice  its  crown  was  frozen  fast; 
And  the  mermaid  climbed  the  branches  steep, 
Peering  through  the  greenish  ice  at  last. 

There  I  stood  upon  the  glassy  sheet — 

Glass  that  barred  me  from  that  depth  so  dark; 

Well  I  could,  beneath  my  very  feet, 

All  her  white  and  wondrous  beauty  mark. 

At  the  hard,  hard  roof,  from  place  to  place, 
Still  she  gropes,  from  stifled  anguish  sore; 
I   shall  not  forget  that  dusky  face, 
In  my  mind  it  lingers  evermore ! 

Summer  Night 

The  grain  is  waving  far  around, 
And  like  a  sea  it  stretches  out; 
And  yet  upon  the  silent  ground 
No  horrid  sea-brood  lies  about. 
But  here  of  wreaths  the  flowers  dream, 
158 


GOTTFRIED  KELLER 


As  they  drink  in  the  star-shine  blest. 
Oh,  golden  sea,  thy  peaceful  beam 
My  longing  soul  absorbs  with  zest! 

There  is  a  custom  fair  and  old 
In  my  own  home  in  valleys  green: 
When  bright  the  summer  starlight's  gold, 
When  through  the  bushes  fireflies  sheen — 
Ah,  then  a  whisp'ring,  waving  gay, 
Draws  near  the  ripened  field  by  night, 
And  through  the  golden  crops  there  sway 
The  sickles,  gleaming  silver-bright. 

For,  flocking  to  the  field  in  throngs, 
The  young  and  sturdy  lads  draw  near. 
The  crop  they're  seeking  that  belongs 
To  widow  or  to  orphan  drear 
Who  kindly   help  can   never  know 
Of  father,  brother,  servant  boy. — 
For  her  the  youths  her  harvest  mow; 
Their  work  is  graced  by  purest  joy. 

Already  all  the  sheaves  are  bound 
And  swiftly  in  a  ring  they're  laid. 
How  blithe  the  fleeting  hours  were  found: 
At  night-time  cool  the  boys  have  played ! 
Now  there  are  songs  and  revels  glad 
Among  the  sheaves,  till  breath  of  day 
Each  brown  and  never  weary  lad 
To  his  own  labour  calls  away. 
159 


KONRAD  FERDINAND  MEYER 
Born  1825  in  Zurich.     Died  1898  near  Zurich 

But  the  Sun  Is  Ever  Youthful 

Now  the  long  forgotten  valley  of  my  youth  I  went 

to  seek, 
And  I  saw  the  dale  lie  barren  and  the  mountains 

stand  out  bleak. 
Oh,   my   trees   and   oh,  my   dreams,   and   sombre 

heights  with  beeches  grown ! — 
But  the  sun  is  ever  youthful  and  his  beauty  lasts 

alone. 

Yonder  where  the  sedge  is  growing,  where  I  see 

the  withered  pool, 
In  my  youth  there  was  the  bubbling  of  a  stream 

alive  and  cool — 
From  the  herds,  through  heaths  and  pastures  there 

arose  a  lowing  moan. — 
But  the  sun  is  ever  youthful  and  his  beauty  lasts 

alone. 

Do  Thou  Speak  Now 

To  thee  I  wandered  daily,  dearest  wood, 
In  hazy  days  of  youth,  now  long  gone  by: 
160 


KONRAD  FERDINAND  MEYER 

I  would  confide  thee  so  much  dreamed-of  good, 
From  such  true  sorrow  thou  wouldst  hear  me  sigh. 

And  thee  again,  my  sombre  haunt,  I  seek, 
The  murmur  of  thy  treetops'  mighty  sea — 
Do  thou  speak  now !    For  I  shall  let  thee  speak ! 
Joy,  pain  are  dumb.    J'll  hearken  now  to  thee. 

Christmas  in  Ajaccio 

Oranges  all  ripe  and  golden  we  have  seen,  and 

myrtle  growing, 
And   the   lizard    flit    along   the   wall,    in    sunlight 

glowing. 

O'er  our  heads  beside  a  wilted  bush  a  butterfly  was 

gliding: 
There  is  here  no  border,  sharply  youth  and  age 

dividing. 

Buds  are  born  before  the  wind  has  blown  away  the 

leaves  that  wither, 
In  a  sweet  entanglement  the  train  of  hours  flies 

hither. 

Tell  me  what  your  eyes  are  dreaming?  Of  a  winter 

— aye,  a  white  one? 
Dear,  'tis  by  a   spring  that  you  are  richer,  and 

a  bright  one! 

For  you  love  the  ling'ring  suns  and  glowing  col- 
ours strong,  unshaded — 
161 


MODERN  TIME 


And  for  home  you're  longing,  where  they  long  ago 
have  faded? 

Hark!     Through    mildest    airs    of    Paradise    the 

Christmas  bells  are  calling! 
Tell  me  what  your  eyes  are  dreaming?    Of  the 

snowflakes  falling? 

The  Dead  Child 

The  child  had  of  the  garden  made  a  friend, 
Till  both  in  autumn  withered  to  an  end. 
The  sun  was  fled  and  both  had  gone  to  sleep, 
Enfolded  in  a  cover  white  and  deep. 

The  garden  now  has  wakened  to  the  light, 
But  still  the  child  is  slumb'ring  in  her  night. 
"Where  are  you?"     So  'tis  buzzing  here  and  there. 
For  her  the  garden  clamours  everywhere. 

The  morning-glory,  climbing  up  with  grace, 
Peeps  through  the  window:    "Leave  your  hiding- 
place  ! 

Come  out,  or  it  will  be  your  own  distress ! 
Come,  let  me  see  your  fine  new  summer-dress !" 

Schiller's  Burial 

Two  dim  and  paltry  torches  that  the  raging  storm 
And  rain  at  any  moment  threaten  to  put  out, 
162 


KONRAD  FERDINAND  MEYER 

A  waving  pall.    A  vulgar  coffin  made  of  pine 
With  not  a  wreath,  not  e'en  the  poorest,  and  no 

train — 

As  if  a  crime  were  swiftly  carried  to  the  grave ! 
The  bearers  hastened  onward.  One  unknown  alone, 
Round  whom  a  mantle  waved  of  wide  and  noble 

fold, 
Followed  this  coffin.    'Twas  the  Spirit  of  Mankind. 


163 


JOSEPH  VICTOR  VON  SCHEFFEL 
Born  1826  in  Karlsruhe.     Died  1886  in  Karlsruhe 

Old  Heidelberg 

Old  Heidelberg,  I  love  thee, 
Thou  town  of  honours  fine. 
Ah,  there  is  none  above  thee, 
By  Neckar  or  the  Rhine. 

With  youth  in  pleasure  glowing, 
With  wisdom  blessed  and  wine! 
How  clear  thy  stream  is  flowing — 
Blue  eyes  like  sunlight  shine ! 

And  when  rough  winter  leaves  thee, 
And  northward  turns  the  spring, 
A  bridal  gown  it  weaves  thee 
Of  blossoms  shimmering. 

Thy  name  is  written  clearly 
Upon  my  heart's  own  ground, 
And  like  a  bride's  so  dearly 
I  love  thy  name's  sweet  sound. 

When  cruel  thorns  shall  sting  me, 
And  dreary  grows  the  land, 
I'll  spur  my  horse  to  bring  me 
Back  unto  Neckar's  strand! 
164 


HEINRICH  LEUTHOLD 

Born  1827  in  Wetzikon  (Switzerland).    Died  1879 
near  Zurich 


The  Forest  Lake 

How  beautiful  thou  art,  O  deep,  blue  lake! 
The  gentle  west  wind  hesitates  to  blow, 
The  timid  lily  only  dares  to  break 
Thy  placid  mirror  with  its  flower  of  snow. 

And  here  no  anglers  rude  thy  depth  desire, 
No  boats  upon  thy  water's  peace  intrude, 
And  like  an  anthem  sung  by  nature's  choir, 
The  forest  murmurs  through  this  solitude. 

Wild  roses  strew  the  incense  of  the  wood 
And  fragrant  pines  that  gird  thee,  proud  and  high, 
As  if,  like  pillars  of  a  church,  they  stood 
To  bear  the  dome  of  blue  and  cloudless  sky. 

Ah,  once  I  knew  a  soul,  so  calm  and  grave, 
Locked  from  the  world  with  seals — the  seals  were 

seven — 

Like  thee,  so  lucid,  deep,  without  a  wave, 
Created  but,  like  thee,  to  mirror  heaven. 
165 


FERDINAND  VON  SAAR 
Born  1833  in  Vienna.     Died  1Q06  in  Vienna 

Girls  Singing 

Springtime:  in  the  evening  shade 
I  was  strolling  through  the  vale — 
All  at  once  before  me  strayed 
Gentle  sounds  across  the  dale. 

I  drew  nearer;  all  serene 
Two  were  sitting  hand  in  hand — 
Maidens  as  by  day  are  seen 
Working  in  the  furrowed  land. 

And  the  faces  both  were  brown 
From  the  kissing  sunbeams'  glow; 
Underneath  each   ragged  gown 
Bare  a  sunburnt  foot  would  show. 

But  they  sang,  their  heads  held  high, 
Songs  that  from  their  bosoms  sprang 
To  the  stars  that  lit  the  sky, 
Sang,  and  knew  not  how  they  sang. 

And  they  sang  the  old,  old  lays 
All  of  love,  its  joy  and  pain, 
Heedless,  seeking  no  one's  praise, 
Through  the  wide  and  lonely  plain. 
166 


WILHELM  JENSEN 
Born  1837  in  Heiligenhafen.    Died  1911  in  Munich 

Letters  from  the  Beloved 

Ah,  your  too  cool  letters,  dear, 
Make  me  think  of  some  cool  spring: 
From  the  depth,  translucent,  clear 
Leaps  the  water,  murmuring. 

Babbling,  bubbling  wavelets  splash, 
Dancing  downward  from  the  height; 
Flickerings  of  light  they  flash, 
Making  all  the  pebbles  bright. 

There's  a  rushing,  speeding  on, 
There's  a  restless  tearing  past, 
Pearling  bubbles  soon  are  gone, 
Broken  and  dissolved  too  fast. 

Yet,  while  waves  are  tumbling  by — 
Under  boulders,  here  and  there, 
Placid  pools  of  water  lie, 
Each  within  a  sombre  lair. 

There  arise  strange,  magic  gleams, 
Green  and  golden  from  the  deep: 
In  the  hidden  pools,  it  seems, 
Ah — some  miracle  must  sleep. 
167 


JOSEPH  VICTOR  WIDMANN 
Born  1842  in  Nennowitz.    Died  1Q11  in  Bern 

May-Beetle's  Comedy 

(Prologue  to  the  First  Act) 

A  night  of  spring  on  valley  and  on  height ! 
The  first  that  follows  on  chill  winter-tide. 
The  mild  south  wind  is  roused  again  to  flight, 
The  gentle  billows  of  his  breathing  glide 
Into  the  deeps  of  earth,  so  dark  as  night, 
And  dwell  where  still  and  secret  beings  hide 
Which  yon  blue  stream  of  light  can  never  show 
That  from  the  island  of  the  moon  doth  flow. 

The  deep  is  not  the  realm  of  death  alone. 
Of  life-seeds  there  a  host  of  millions  lies. 
From  grubs,  so  pale  and  weak  and  bloodless  grown, 
Soon  legions  of  them,  armed  in  mail,  will  rise, 
Who  still  in  caves,  dark  chambers  of  their  own, 
Are  dwelling  like  a  shadow- folk.   Surmise 
Of  its  salvation  has  begun  to  grow 
Upon  the  restless  little  world  below. 

Now  that  the  breath  of  May  its  greeting  brings, 
Come,  let  us  hark  to  what  they  do  and  say. 
For  resurrections  to  the  beat  of  wings 
Each  clod  of  earth  a  coffin  is  to-day. 
168 


JOSEPH  VICTOR  WIDMANN 

Now  from  the  earth-born  heavenly  courage  springs ; 
Within  them  life's  sweet  poison  works  away 
That  with  delirious  longing  makes  them  pine 
For  worlds  far  distant  from  their  own  confine. 


Song  of  the  Blue  Thrush 

(From  "The  Saint  and  the  Beasts") 

Oh,  lovely  world,  good-bye !     For  woe, 

I  must  be  gone,  my  heart  is  ill. 

But,  dearest  world,  before  I  go, 

My  life's  last  thanks,  oh,  take  thou  still. 

It  seems,  at  first  I  was  not  there, 
I  was  not  at  the  very  start. 
Yet  round  me  waved  the  light  and  air, 
When  once  a  prison  broke  apart. 

Oh,  light  and  air,  you  long  stayed  true, 
Until  this  twilight  sank  to-day, 
And  you  were  daily  fair  and  new, 
And  I  was  young  and  I  was  gay. 

My  blood  was  warm,  my  blood  would  boil, 
My  breast  would  rise  in  joyful  song, 
And  there  was  joy  in  busy  toil: 
The  longest  day  was  not  too  long. 
169 


MODERN  TIME 


I  wove  a  house  of  many  a  blade 
And  hung  it  on  the  steep  cliff-side. 
One  early  morn  my  flight  I  made 
Away  into  the  world  so  wide. 

Then  came  the  unforgotten  day 
When  once,  on  such  a  flight  in  spring, 
In  answer  to  my  fairest  lay, 
I  first  heard  love's  sweet  echoing. 

It  seemed  a  game  and  was  an  aim 
And  helped  our  lives  at  last  unfold. 
And  even  care  that  often  came 
Would  give  us  but  a  stronger  hold. 

Ah,  why  does  all  the  past  seem  blest, 
E'en  what  in  pain  I  scarce  could  brook? 
The  serpent  crept  into  our  nest! 
The  falcon  wild  my  life-mate  took! 

When  I  had  reared  with  pain  and  care 
My  youthful  brood,  soon  came  the  day 
When  all  had  left,  away  to  fare 
And  their  own  courage  to  essay. 

And  once  more  lonely  was  my  flight, 
And  many  a  gloomy  night  passed  by 
When  all  my  heart  would  beat  in  fright, 
For  murder  tracked  me  on  the  sly. 
170 


JOSEPH  VICTOR  WIDMANN 

That  life  was  easy,  who  can  say? 
'Twas  after  all  but  full  of  woe ! 
Now  that  I  feel  it  pass  away, 
It  showers  over  me  a  glow. 

Oh,  mighty  world !    I  am  so  small 
And  now  must  go — my  heart  is  ill — 
And  now  I  shall  not  be  at  all — 
Oh,  lovely  world — thanks — thank  you,  still- 


171 


DETLEV  VON  LILIENCRON 
Born  1844  in  Kiel.     Died  1909  in  Hamburg 

Parting  and  Return 


All  over,  over — and  my  eyes 

Afar  are  straying  in  despair. 

All  over — but  the  sea-gull  flies, 

My  plaintive  escort,  through  the  air. 

The  gull  returns:  far,  far  away 
I  leave  my  fatherland  behind; 
An  outcast  from  my  home  I  stray 
Where  I  my  grave  had  hoped  to  find. 

When  yesterday,  in  parting  pain, 
Enraged  the  linden  bough  I  shook, 
And  heard  the  partridge  in  the  grain, 
A  fever-spell  my  limbs  o'ertook. 

My  ship  is  pitching,  tossed  by  waves, 
The  mates  are  singing  while  they  sail. 
My  heart  is  tossed,  it  storms  and  raves, 
And  homeless,  I  must  feel  the  gale. 
172 


DETLEV  VON  LILIENCRON 


ii 

'Mid  waves   there  gleams  the  pallid  strand; 
Afar  through  blurring  tears  is  seen 
The  seacoast  of  my  fatherland. 
Exhausted,  by  the  mast  I  lean. 

The  lilacs  bloom,  the  swallows  stray, 
The  starlings'  chatter  fills  the  air, 
The  organ-grinder  grinds  his  lay, 
The  wind's  light  kiss  is  on  my  hair. 

Before  the  guardhouse  soldiers  stand, 
And  arm  in  arm  laugh  damsels  young, 
While  from  the  school  there  pours  a  band 
That  frolics  in  my  native  tongue. 

My  heart  cries  out  in  rapture  wild, 
Rejoicing  my  old  home  to  greet, 
And  all  I  lived  with  as  a  child 
Like  echoes  on  my  way  I  meet. 

War  and  Peace 

Mid  flower  beds  I  chanced  to  stand,     - 
And  gazed  upon  a  gorgeous  land 
That  blooming  wide  before  me  lay 
Beneath  the  harvest  sun's  hot  ray; 
And  in  the  apple-tree's  fair  shade 
173 


MODERN  TIME 


My  host  and  I  together  stayed 
And  listened  to  a  nightingale, 
And  peace  was  over  hill  and  dale. 
There  whizzed,  the  distant  rails  along, 
A  train  that  brought  a  happy  throng. 
What  magic !    And  besides  it  bore 
Of  blessed  goods  a  heavy  store. 
But  once  I  saw  the  iron  track 
Destroyed  and  torn  for  miles.     Alack — 
And  here  where  flowers  now  abound 
Was  then  a  barren,  stirred-up  ground. 

A  summer  morn  was  glowing  bright, 

Like  this  one:  down  from  every  height, 

With  bag  and  knapsack  all  day  long, 

From  ambuscades  there  poured  a  throng 

Prepared  to  storm,  a  dazzling  sea, 

The  army  of  the  enemy. 

I  stood  as  though  of  iron  cast, 

Upon  my  sabre  leaning,  fast. 

With  lips   apart  and   open-eyed 

Into  the  mouth  of  hell  I  spied. 

"Quick  fire!"      "Stand   still!"      Now   they 

are  there ! 

High  waves  the  flag  through  smoky  air! 
And  up  and  down  go  men  in  rows, 
And  many  sink  in  deadly  throes. 
Now  someone  stabs  me  as  I  fall, 
Stabs  hard — I  have  no  strength  at  all. 
Before,  beneath  me,  round  about, 
174 


DETLE7  VON  LILIENCRON 

A  frightful  struggle,  rage  and  rout. 
And  o'er  this  tangle  wild,  in  fear 
I  see  a  shying  war  horse  rear. 
The  hoof  I  see  like  lightning  whir, 
The  clotted  scar  from  pricking  spur, 
The  girth,  the  spattered  mud,  the  red 
Of  nostrils  swelling  wide  with  dread. 
Between  us  now  with  clanging  sound 
The  bombshell  bursts  its  iron  bound; 
A  dragon  rears,  the  earth  is  rent — 
Down  falls  the  whole  Avide  firmament ! 
They  wail  and  moan,  and  dust  is  spread 
Upon  the  laurels  and  the  dead. 

'Mid  flower  beds  I  chanced  to  stand 
And  gazed  upon  a  gorgeous  land 
That  far  and  wide  before  me  lay 
Beneath  the  peace-fan's  lulling  sway. 
And  in  the  apple-trees'  fair  shade 
My  host  and  I  together  stayed 
And  hearkened  to  the  nightingale; 
And  roses  bloomed  on  hill  and  dale. 


175 


BOOK  V 
OUR  TIME 


CARL  SPITTELER 
Born    1845    in   Liestal    (Switzerland) 


Bell,  my  silver-tongued  bell, 

Oh,  thy   secret  prithee  tell: 

Dwellst  where  bats  and  night-owls  roam, 

Lonely  in  thy  mouldered  home; 

Tell  me,  whence  thy  solemn  ring? 

And  who  taught  thee,  pray,  to  sing? 

When  in  gloomy  shaft  I  lay, 
Night  of  hell  I  saw  alway. 
In  this  tower  high  and  free 
Through  the  whirling  winds  I  see 
Human  sorrow  graced  by  soul. 
Dost  thou  wonder  why  I  toll? 


179 


PRINCE  EMIL  VON  SCHONAICH- 
CAROLATH 

Born  1852  in  Breslau.     Died  1908 

Oh  Germany! 

A  German  town  with  gables 
Upon  a  moonlight  night — 
J  know  not  why  I  always 
Am  touched  so  by  the  sight. 

Into  the  lamplight  yonder 
A  youth  is  staring  long; 
He's  sighing,  sobbing,  feeling 
His  first  and  dearest  song. 

There  sits  a  youthful  mother 
And  rocks  to  rest  her  child; 
She's  praying  while  she  rocks  him 
To  sleep  with  singing  mild. 

On  the  moonlit  gables  linger 
An  old  man's  pensive  eyes: 
He  holds  in  his  hands  a  Bible 
Where  a  faded  nosegay  lies. 

The  twinkling  stars  are  gleaming, 
There's  rustling  in  the  trees; 
180 


VON  SCHONAICH-CAROLATH 

The  houses  all  seem  dreaming 
In  deep  and  drowsy  ease. 

The  fountain  is  splashing,  flowing, 
As  always  on  Simon  Square, 
The  watchman  low  is  blowing 
Upon  the  horn  his  air. 

Oh  Germany!     I've  had  pleasure 
In  many  a  foreign  land — 
But  to  thee  greatest  treasure 
Was  given  by  God's  own  hand. 

Thou  living,  longing  foundest 
Thy  dreams  in  deepest  peace. 
The  while  thou  iron  poundest, 
Thy  songs  shall  never  cease. 

Let  no  one  rob  thy  worship — 
Thy  worship  old  and  true 
Of  women,  faith  and  freedom, 
And  keep  it  ever  new ! 

Draw  from  the  fount  of  story 
Thy  piety  of  yore, 
And  strength  to  fight  with  glory — 
To-day  and  evermore. 


181 


GUSTAV  FALKE 
Born  1853  in  Liibeck.     Died  1916  in  Hamburg 

A  Day  Spent 

Leaning  head  on  hand,  I  muse:  oh,  tell, 
Day  of  beauty,  have;  I  used  thee  well? 

First  upon  my  wife's  dear  lips  a  kiss, 
Love's  salute  and  early  morning  bliss. 

Faithful  toil,  for  daily  bread  the  care, 
Men's  dispute  in  words  that  never  spare. 

Then  I  quaffed  my  glass  with  true  delight, 
Warded  off  a  wicked  wish  with  might. 

From  eternal  stars  with  blessed  beam 
Comes  to  me  at  last  the  poet's  dream. 

Leaning  head  on  hand,  I  muse  and  tell: 
Day  of  beauty,  I  have  used  thee  well. 

When  I  Die 

Upon  my  forehead  lay  your  crimson  roses — 
In  festive  garment  from  you  I  would  go ! 
182 


GUSTAF  FALKE 


The  windows  open  till  the  light  reposes 
Upon  my  bed — the  starlight's  smiling  glow. 

And  music !    While  your  songs  are  still  enthralling, 
And  one  by  one  the  parting  cup  you  drink, 
Then  I  would  have  my  curtain  slowly  falling, 
As  summer  nights  on  ripened  harvests  sink. 


183 


ISOLDE  KURZ 
Born  1853  in  Stuttgart 

Nekropolis 

A  city  is  standing  in  the  waves 
That  rose  from  the  deepest  lair: 
There  each  of  the  houses  the  water  laves 
And  kisses  each  marble  stair; 
There  palaces  stand  in  their  glory's  pride 
And  gilded  are  pillar  and  wall — • 
But  over  the  battlements  far  and  wide 
Destruction  is  brooding  for  all. 

No  sound  of  wheel  or  of  hoof  is  known 

The  lion  to  wake  from  his  dream, 

But  low  from  the  Lido  the  night-winds  moan 

And  wildly  the  sea-gulls  scream. 

The  moon  makes  silver  the  silent  tide, 

The  gondolas  glide  their  way, 

And  seaweeds  on  the  water  ride — 

Like  wind-tossed  corpses  stray. 

O    pearl,  thou  of  all  in  the  deep  most  fair, 
Thou  beauty  out  of  the  sea, 
Where  are  thy  daughters  with  golden  hair, 
184 


ISOLDE  KURZ 


Thy  sons,  oh,  where  may  they  be? 

And  where  is  thy  splendour,  the  gleam  of  thy  gold, 

That  all  the  earth  would  dread? 

The  arts  that  so  many  a  heart  would  hold? 

Where  is  thy  realm?     With  the  dead. 

By  night,  though,  the  greatest  canal  along, 

Where  the  flickering  night  lights  play 

Rise  sounds  like  whispering  and  amorous  song 

Of  shades  that  deserted  stray. 

Frolicking  swarms  of  masks  whirl  round 

Upon  the  Piazza,  near  by, 

And  clashing  swords  on  the  Riva  resound; 

High  masts  are  darkening  the  sky. 

It  seems  as  if  from  the  night  and  deep 

Had  risen  the  Venice  of  old. 

The  waves  and  the  sea  wind  wake  from  sleep, 

Her  corpse  to  rock  and  to  hold. 

The  sea  is  rising,  with  passionate  arms 

There  by  the  canal-bed  to  cling, 

As  if  the  young  spouse  with  his  kisses  and  charms 

To  her  beauty  new  life  should  bring. 


185 


LUDWIG  FULDA 
Born  1862  in  Frankfurt  a.  M. 

In  the  Express  Train 

I  hasten  by  a  city  lightning-fast 
Here  in  the  rattling  train:  I  see 
Streets,  houses,  people  shooting  past, 
Wagons,  lanterns,  signs  in  flight, 
Overlapping  in  my  sight; 
Blotted,  dim  they  seem  to  me. 
Here  I  lived  once  long  ago, 
Lived  for  years 

In  youth's  impassioned  sacred  glow, 
In  love  and  hate,  in  hopes  and  fears. 
Round  the  corner   there — 
To  the  left,  by  the  square — 
Lives  my  one-time  worshipped  fate; 
Behind  the  walls  there,  flitting  past, 
I  could  almost  hold  it  fast — 
No :  too  late — too  late ! 
The  last  few  houses — the  empty  plain; 
The  long-lost  world  is  fled  again, 
With  joys  and  sorrows  great 
186 


LUDWIG  FULDA 


Of  storm-blessed  youthful  strife. 
I  feel  as  if  this  moment  I 
Had  like  a  stranger  hurried  by 
My  own  forgotten  life ! 


187 


ARNO  HOLZ 
Born   1863  in  Rastenburg  (East  Prussia) 

Like  One  of  These  Was  He 

In  the  woods  is  a  village  small 

Lying  in  the  sunshine's   gold; 

By  the  hillside  house,  the  last  of  all, 

Sits  a  woman  old,  so  old. 

She  sits  and  spins  no  more, 
Her  thread   slips  to  her   feet, 
She  thinks  of  the  days  of  yore 
And  sinks  into  slumber  sweet. 

Noonday  steals  with  quiet  deep 
O'er  the  glimmering  green,  and  now 
Even  thrush  and  cricket  sleep 
And  the  steer  before  the  plough. 

All  at  once  they're  marching  by, 
Gleaming  the  woods  along — 
Ahead  of  the  soldiers  fly 
Drum-beats  and  fifes'  gay  song. 

And  to  the  song  of  Bliicher  brave, 
"They're  here!"  cries  the  village  gay, 
And  all  the  little  maidens  wave, 
188 


ARNO  HOLZ 


And  the  boys  cry  out:     "Hurray!" 
God  bless  the  harvest  gold, 
And  all  the  wide  world  too ! 
The  Emperor's  soldiers  bold 
The  fields  are  marching  through ! 

Turning  round  by  the  hillside  near, 
Where  the  last  house  seems  to  smile, 
See,   the   first  in  the  woods   disappear, 
And  the  old  woman  wakes  meanwhile. 

So  heavy  her  heart  is  growing 

In  deepest  revery, 

Her  tears  are  flowing,  flowing: 

"Like  one  of  these  was  he !" 


189 


HUGO  TERBERG 

(Pseud,  for  HUGO  MUNSTERBERG) 
Born  1863  in  Danzig 

On  the  Death  of  a  Child 

Dear  child,  now  you  have  gone  to  sleep  so  gently: 

You  smile  in  peace. 

Your  little  boat  sails  into  port  contently; 

Your  day  must  cease. 

The  happy  frolics  with  your  dolls  are  over, 

Your  merry  play; 

The     flowers    you    loved — the     daisies,    poppies, 

clover — 
All  fade  away. 

There  stands  your  rocking-horse  for  you  to  ride  it: 
You  ride  no  more ! 

No  school  work — ah,  you  never  could  abide  it ! — 
Makes  your  heart  sore. 

Your  sister  in  the  lonely  yard  is  straying 
With  heavy  heart. 

She  waits  for  you  no  longer:  in  her  playing 
You  have  no  part. 

190 


HUGO  TERBERG 


You  lie  as  if  in  dreams — sweet  calm  about  you: 
Dream  on,  dream  on  ... 

Grieve  not  because  the  children  play  without  you, 
When  you  are  gone. 

We  cannot  long  be  playing  games  so  gaily, 
Dear  child,  I  know: 

Upon  the  rough  wide  road  of  life — ah,  daily 
Rude  winds  must  blow. 

To  go  through  life  means  fighting  hard  and  griev- 
ing 

With  wounded  breast  .  .  . 

He  who  can  part  as  child,  his  frolics  leaving, 
Is  truly  blessed. 


191 


RICHARD  DEHMEL 
Born  1863  in  Wendisch  Hermsdorf 

Voice  in  Darkness 

There's  moaning  somewhere  in  the  dark. 
I  want  to  know  what  it  may  be. 
The  wind  is  angry  with  the  night — 

Yet  the  wind's  moan  sounds  not  so  near. 
The  wind  will  always  moan  at  night. 
'Tis  in  my  ear  my  blood  that  moans — 
My  blood,  forsooth. 

Yet  not  so  strangely  moans  my  blood. 
My  blood  is  tranquil  like  the  night. 
I  think  a  heart  must  moan  somewhere. 

Through  the  Night 

But  ever  you,  this  sombre  you, 
Through  all  the  night  this  hollow  soaring 
Of  sound — and  through  the  wires  a  roaring; 
The  homeward  road  my  steps  pursue. 

And  pace  for  pace  this  sombre  you, 
As  if  from  pole  to  pole  'twere  soaring; 
192 


RICHARD  DEHMEL 


Of  thousand  words  I  hear  a  roaring, 
And  dumb  my  homeward  road  pursue. 

From  an  Oppressed  Heart 

And  still  the  roses  gleam  for  me, 

The  sombre  leaves  their  tremour  keep; 

Here  in  the  grass  I  wake  from  sleep. 

I  long  for  thee, 

For  now  the  midnight  is  so  deep. 

The  moon  's  behind  the  garden  gate, 
Her  light  o'erflows  the  lake  with  gloss, 
And  silently  the  willows  wait; 
On  clover  moist  my  limbs  I  toss. 
And  never  was  my  love  so  great ! 

So  well  I  ne'er  before  had  known 
When  I  embraced  thy  shoulder  dear, 
Thine  inmost  self  felt  blindly  near, 
Why,  when  my  heart  had  overflown, 
Thy  moans  would  rise  from  inmost  fear. 

Oh  now,  oh,  hadst  thou  seen  this  glow — 

The  creeping  pair  of  glow-worms'  flame ! 

Ah,  nevermore  from  thee  I'll  go ! 

I  long  for  thee. 

And  still  the  roses  gleam  for  me. 

Many  a  Night 

When  the  night  on  fields  is  sinking, 
Then  my  eyes  can  see  more  brightly: 
193 


OUR  TIME 


Now  my  star  begins  its  blinking, 
Crickets'  whispers  grow  more  sprightly. 

Every  sound  becomes  more  glowing, 
Things  accustomed  now  seem  queerer; 
Paler  too  the  skies  are  growing 
Near  the  woods,  the  tree  tops  clearer. 

Meditating,  never  heeding 
How  the  myriad  lights  are  showered 
Out  of  darkness,  on  I'm  speeding — 
Now  I  stop  all  overpowered. 

Wave  Dance  Song 

I  tossed  a  rose  into  the  sea, 
A  blooming  fair  rose  into  the  green  sea. 
Because  the  sun  shone,  sun  shone  bright, 
After  it  leaped  the  light, 
With  hundred  tremulous  toes  in  glee. 
When  the  first  wave  came, 
Then  my  rose,  my  rose  began  to  drown. 
When  the  second  wave  raised  it  on  shoulders  tame, 
The  light,  the  light  at  her  feet  sank  down. 
The  third  snatched  it  up  and  then  the  light, 
As  if  in  defence,  leaped  high  tremblingly. 
But  a  hundred  leaping  flower  petals 
Were  rocking  red,  red,  red  round  me, 
And  my  boat  danced  about 
And  my  shadow  like  a  spright 
On  the  foam,  and  the  green  sea,  the  sea — 
194 


RICHARD  DEHMEL 


The  Workman 

We  have  a  bed  and  we  have  a  child, 

My  wife! 

And  work  we've  for  two — all  our  own  to  call, 
And  rain  and  the  wind  and  the  sunshine  mild. 
We  are  lacking  now  but  one  thing  small 
To  be  as  free  as  the  birds  so  wild: 

Time— that's  all! 

When  on  Sundays  through  the  fields  we  go, 

My  child, 

And  see  how  the  swallows  to  and  fro 
Are  shooting  over  the  grain-stalks  tall, 
Oh,  we  lack  not  clothes,  though  our  share  is  small, 
To  be  as  fair  as  the  birds  so  wild: 

Time — that's  all. 

But  time !     We're  scenting  a  tempest  wild, 

We  people ! 

Eternity  our  own  to  call — 
That's  what  we  lack,  my  wife,  my  child, 
And  all  that  blooms  through  us,  the  small, 
To  make  us  gay  as  the  birds  so  wild: 

Time — that's  all. 

Song  for  All 
1914 

Hour  of  steel,  thou  art  a  blessing 
That  at  last  unites  us  all. 
195 


OUR  TIME 


Friend  and  foe,  still  peace  caressing, 
Trembled  in  suspicion's  thrall. 

Now  comes  the  fight, 

The  honest  fight! 

Greed  with  blunted  claw  has  meanly 
Bartered  for  its  pomp  and  lust; 
Now  we  all  are  feeling  keenly 
What  can  save  our  souls  from  dust: 

The  hour  of  need, 

Of  blessed  need ! 

Truth  will  blaze,  through  darkness  smiting, 
Over  dust  and  powder's  smoke. 
Not  for  life  we  men  are  fighting — 
Fighting  till  the  fatal  stroke: 

For  then  comes  death, 

Divinest  death ! 

Led  by  faith,  thy  land  defending, 
People,  for  thy  spirit  fight, 
Heroes'  blood  for  honour  spending! 
Sacrifice  be  our  delight — 

Then  victory, 

Hail  victory ! 


196 


RICARDA  HUGH 
Born   1864  in  Braunschweig 

Midnight 

To  this  grave  of  mine 
Come  not  in  the  morning, 
Come  on  ways  of  darkness, 
Dearest,  by  the  dim  moonshine. 

For  when  through  the  skies 
Bells   are  tolling  midnight, 
From  my  earthly  prison 
To  the  lovely  air  I  rise. 

In  my  death-dress  white 
On   my   grave   I   linger, 
Watch  the  stars  and  measure 
Time's  majestic  tread  at  night. 

Come,  and  have  no  fear ! 

Can  you  still  give  kisses? 

I   forgot  them  never 

While  I  slept  the  winters  drear. 

Kiss  me  hard  and  long. 
In  the  east  already 
197 


OUR  TIME 


Sings  the  morning  sunlight 

— Lack-a-day! — its  joyful  song. 

You  were  mine  again ! 
Go  and  taste  life's  sweetness!— 
I  in  deep,  deep  darkness 
Sleep  once  more  with  pain. 


198 


OTTO  JULIUS  BIERBAUM 
Born   1865  in  Griinberg.     Died   1910  in  Munich 

Enough 

A    knight   rode    through   the    ripened    grain, 
No  spurs  he  had  and  loose  his  rein. 
The  horse  that  feasted  on  his  walk 
Snatched  many  a  ripe  and  yellow  stalk. 
The  dazzling  summer  sunlight's  beam 
Upon  the  black  steel  cast  a  gleam, 
Upon  the  horseman's  armour  rough. 
One  word  was  on  his  shield:     "Enough." 
His  lance  stayed  crosswise  all  the  way, 
His  iron  hand  upon  it  lay. 
When  to  a  spring  his  course  had  led, 
He  took  the  helmet  off  his  head, 
He  knelt  upon  the  stony  sand, 
Drew  water  with  his  iron  hand. 
And  then  he  let  the  water  go, 
And  tenderly  he  watched  its  flow: 
"My  heart  in  fight  and  fray  was  hot, 
And  love  at  all  times  left  me  not. 
Now  home  I  ride  with  gentle  pace, 
And  bring  a  smile  upon  my  face: 
Enough." 

199 


STEFAN  GEORGE 
Born  1868  in  Biidesheim 

The  Vigil 

Within  the  chapel  quivers  candlelight. 
And  there  the  page  his  vigil  keeps  alone 
Before  the  altar's  threshold  all  the  night. 
"I  shall  partake  when  morning  dawneth  bright 
Of  all  that  solemn  glory  yet  unknown, 

"When  by  one  stroke  I  shall  be  dubbed  a  knight. 
My  childhood  longing  hushed,  I  shall  not  swerve 
From  deeds  of  rigour;  with  my  spurs  and  might 
Devoted  in  the  good  war  I  will  serve. 

"For  this  new  honour  I  must  now  prepare: 
The  consecration  of  my  sword  unstained 
Before  God's  altar  and  the  symbol  there, 
The  testimony  of  high  worth  attained." 

There  his  forefather's  image  gray  and  old 
Reposed  and  slender  vaults  rose  overhead. 
Trustfully  clasped,  his  hands  lay  stony  cold; 
Upon  his  breast  there  was  a  banner  spread. 

His  eyes  are  darkened  by  the  helmet's  shade. 
A  cherub  spreading  wide  his  pinions  pale 
200 


STEFAN  GEORGE 


Holds  over  him  his  shield  with  coat  of  mail: 
Upon  an  azure  field  the  flaming  blade. 

The  youth  is  praying  to  the  Lord  above 

And   breaks   the   narrow  bounds   of   prayer   with 

feeling, 

His  hands  devoutly  clasped  as  he  is  kneeling. 
Then  slowly  into  thoughts  of  pious  love 
An  earthly  image  unawares  is  stealing. 

She  stood  among  her  garden  gilly-flowers, 
She  was  much  less  a  maiden  than  a  child. 
Upon  her  gown  were  broidered  starry  showers, 
'About  her  golden  hair  the  sun-flecks  smiled. 

He  shudders,  and  he  longs  in  his  dismay 
To  flee  the  vision  that  he  deems  a  snare; 
His  hands  he  buries  in  his  curly  hair 
And  makes  the  sign  that  lets  no  evil  stay. 

The  blood  is  rushing  hot  into  his  cheek, 
The  candle  flames  shoot  lightnings  in  his  face. 
But  now  he  sees  the  Lady  Mother  meek, 
Upon  her  lap  the  Saviour  giving  grace. 

"I  will  forever  in  Thine  army  serve 
And  all  my  life  no  other  aim  will  seek, 
And  from  Thy  high  commandment  never  swerve. 
Forgive  if  for  the  last  time  I  was  weak." 
201 


OUR  TIME 


Out  from  the  snow-white  altar's  covered  chest 
A  swarm  of  little  angels'  faces  flew, 
And  as  the  organ's  sacred  murmur  grew, 
The  Valiant's  innocence,  the  Dead's  deep  rest 
With   tranquil   clearness   soared   the   whole   house 
through. 

The  Shepherd's  Day 

The    flocks    were    trudging    from    their    winter 

haunts. 

Their  youthful  shepherd  once  again  went  forth 
Upon  the  plain  illumined  by  the  stream. 
The  gaily  wakened  fields  waved  greetings  gay 
And  singing  lands  were  hailing  him  with  joy. 
He   smiled  unto  himself  and  walked  along 
With    wakening    heart    upon    the    spring-touched 

ways. 

Upon  his  crook  he  leaped  across  the  ford, 
And,  as  he  halted  at  the  other  shore, 
Rejoiced  to  see  the  gold  that  waves  had  washed 
From  underneath  the  stones,  and  fragile  shells 
Of  many  shapes  and  tints  that  promised  luck. 
The  bleating  of  his  lambs  he  heard  no  more, 
And  wandered  to  the  woods,  the  cool  ravine. 
There    brooks    are    rushing    headlong    down    the 

rocks — 

The  rocks  where  mosses  drip  and  naked  roots 
Of  sombre  beeches  darkly  intertwine. 
In  silent  contemplation  of  the  leaves 
202 


STEFAN  GEORGE 


He  fell  asleep,  although  the  sun  was  high 
And  silver  scales  were  glistening  in  the  stream. 
He  woke  and  climbing  reached  the  mountain  peak 
To  celebrate  the  passing  of  the  light. 
With    sacred    leaves    he    crowned    his    head    and 

prayed; 

And  through  the  mild  and  gently  stirring  shadows 
Of  darkening  clouds  soared  forth  his  hearty  lay. 


203 


LULU  VON  STRAUSS  UND  TORNEY 
Born   1873  in  Biickeburg 

The  Seafarer 

The  ship  was  bursting  with  a  mighty  crash: 
Ablaze  were  bow  and  deck  and  every  mast. 
The  old  boat  pitching  rose  to  port:  a  splash — 
A  surging  of  gray  waves — the  gale's  shrill  blast — 
Thundering  orders — prayers — then  cry  on  cry — 
A  blow,  a  headlong  fall — God  stand  me  by! — 
Down,  down.     Black  night  upon  all  senses  fell. 

Mate,  fill  my  glass!     This  yarn  is  long  to  tell. 

'Twas  in  the  deep  I  saw — I  saw  that  sight. 
They  have  no  day  down  there,  they  have  no  night. 
The  sand  is  shimmering  green.     There  planks  lie 

scattered, 

Beside  a  giant  mast  in  splinters  shattered. 
And  up  from  pallid  vines  rise  bubbles  whirling — 
From  vines  that  evermore  are  swaying,  curling, 
Their  long  and  wary   tendril-arms   unfurling. 
And  glistening  shells  among  the  wreckage  lie 
That  snap  without  a  sound  when  prey  floats  by, 
And  there  are  fish  with  lustre  livid  pale 
That  beat  their  tails  transparent  as  a  veil. 
204 


LULU  VON  STRAUSS  UND  TORNEY 

A  restless  host  is  wandering  on  down  there, 
A  thousand  thousand,  an  unnumbered  band. 
Their  hands  are  stiff,  their  eyes  unseeing  stare; 
With  leaden  feet  they  wade  across  the  sand, 
Wayfarers  lost  without  a  path  or  way — 
Blue-jackets,  grimy  fellows,  women  folding 
Limp   arms  round  languid  infants  they  are  hold- 
ing— 

Who  lived  on  sunken  ships.      Forlorn  they  stray, 
Their  names  are  lost,  they  wear  strange  garbs  of 

yore- 
All  those  who  went  and  then  returned  no  more. 

I  saw  them  all  like  pallid  phantoms  pass, 

As   though    I   watched   them   through   a   blurring 

glass. 

One  beckoned  dumbly  as  he  passed  me  by, 
And  so  I  followed  him,  I  knew  not  why. 
The  way  was  endless  and  it  grew  and  grew; 
Our  feet  were  tired  and  they  stumbled  too. 
And  him  who  fell,  his  helping  neighbour  raised. 
A  woman  slipped  and  when  I  helped  her,  dazed 
She  hung  upon  my  neck,  a  load  of  lead. 
Deep  blue  abysses  gaped.     And  overhead, 
Like  clouds  upon  the  water  gray  and  pale, 
The  shadows  passed  of  many  a  giant  whale. 

One  man  I  looked  at  more  than  all  the  rest, 
His  languid  head  hung  limp  upon  his  breast: 
And  then  I  knew  old  Peter  Jens,  the  rover, 
Who  once  went  overboard,  at  night,  by  Dover. 
£05 


OUR  TIME 


I  gently  pulled  his  ragged  shirt  to  say — 

And    then    my    voice    seemed    strange    and    far 

away — 
"Where  are  you  bound?" — He  looked  with  glassy 

eye. 

"We're  seeking,  seeking,  seeking!"  his  reply. 
"What   are   you   seeking,   Jens?" — He   answered: 

"Land!" 

Then  all  about  who  with  us  crept  and  drifted, 
Their  weary,  pale  and  anguished  faces  lifted. 
A  wailing  trembled  all  along  the  sand. 

Yet  all  at  once  my  power  seemed  to  gain. 

I  turned  about  with  mighty  voice  to  call 

Unto  this  lifeless,  ever  wandering  train: 

"Now  courage!     Follow  me!     God  leads  us  all!" 

My  heart  was  quickened  and  it  beat  again, 
And  ever  through  the  void  all  pale  and  still 
I  was  drawn  onward  by  an  unknown  will;- 
Behind  me  crept  that  endless  gloomy  train. 
How  long  a  time  elapsed,  I  did  not  know. 
At  times  the  darkness  fainter  seemed  to  grow — 
The  gloom  that  hung  about  on  every  hand — 
And  on  the  hard  and  livid  waves  of  sand 
Something  arose  quite  near  that  seemed  like  land- 
Within  our  grasp !     And  then  again  it  faded. 
The  ugly  brood  that  lurks  within  the  deep 
Pursued  us  lazily.     Then  faint  and  jaded, 
Lost  in  the  mighty  void,  we  cannot  keep 
Our  courage;  stifled,  all  our  hopes  must  cease — 
206 


LULU  VON  STRAUSS  UND  TORNEY 

No  morning  dawns !     Ah,  there  is  no  release ! 

Wherefore  this  torment? 

Faint  they  reeled  and  stayed 

Worn  out,  beneath  the  everlasting  shade. 

"Where  art  Thou,  God?"  I  cried,  but  no  sound 
made. — 

— Now,  now :  a  point !     A  sudden  glimmer  bright ! 

A  crevice  burst — a  flood  of  light  was  gleaming, 

The  earth  and  sky  with  golden  glow  were  stream- 
ing! 

Salvation!     Hail!     A  rushing  for  the  light! 

I  hurled  the  woman  up  unto  the  strand 

And  staggered,  with  my  last  force  crying: 
"Land!" 

Here,  mate!     My  glass  is  empty.     Fill  it,  lad! 

What  next?     Why,  nothing.     I  can  tell  no  more. 

I  only  know — the  night  was  very  bad — 

They  found  me  lying  on  the  Scottish  shore. 

My  ship?  The  wreck?  God  knows  where  that 
had  stranded. 

All  those  who  in  the  night  with  me  had  landed 

Were  dead  and  cold.  They've  found  a  resting- 
place  : 

A  bit  of  earth,  a  cross.     God  give  them  grace! 

Sometimes  at  night  when  there's  a  creaking,  crash- 
ing 

And  when  the  whistling  winds  the  yards  are 
thrashing, 

207 


OUR  TIME 


Against  the  hatches  angry  waves  are  splashing — 
Then  it  comes  over  me:  I  seem  to  wander 
Forever  with  those  thousand  others  yonder ! 
Many  I've  seen  for  years,  but  ever  more 
Newcomers  join — each  night  a  mighty  band! 
Sometimes  I  find  one  whom  I  knew  before; 
He  nods  and  dumbly  stretches  out  his  hand. 
And  many  a  comrade  in  that  silent  throng 
I've  borne  upon  my  back  or  dragged  along. 
I  see  them,  all  the  sea  did  ever  swallow; 
The  others,  too,  I  see:  those  yet  to  follow — 
Many  a  youth  who  laughs  with  us  to-day, 
Upon  whose  heart  no  thoughts  of  dying  weigh. 
And  step  for  step  through  all  the  night  we  go, 
Deep,  deep  down  there. 

Jan  Witt,  ah,  well  you  know, 
No  shaking  then  can  wake  me  from  my  dream, 
E'en    should   you    shout   to    wake   the   dead,   and 

scream. 

But  I  come  back  at  early  dawn  of  day, 
When  in  the  east  the  blackness  turns  to  gray; 
Then  I  awake.     My  head  is  dull  and  weighs 
Like  lead.     And  then  I  cannot  laugh  for  days. 
Ho,  fellows,  why  so  dumb  ?    A  roundelay ! 
For  what  the  morrow  brings,  who   cares   to-day? 
Heads  high  and  gay  !     Our  sailors'  custom  keep  ! 
We  men,  when  we're  at  home  or  when  we  fare 
On  foreign  seas,  each  day  our  shroud  must  wear. 
And  He  above — He  also  knows  the  deep ! 


208 


BORRIES  FREIHERR  VON  MUNCH- 
HAUSEN 

Born  1874  in  Hildesheim 

Ballad  of  the  Wall 

Monteton,  where  is  thy  wall? 
Chale^on,  where  is  thy  sword? 
Where  is  thy  tower,   Tournefort? 

Noblemen's    swords,    how    their    blades    were    all 

sharp  and  good ! 
Noblemen's    swords    grew   dull    in   plebeian    thick 

blood. 

Tournefort's  tower  is  black  and  burnt  inside, 
From  the  crest  they  banished  the  blazon-flag,  its 
pride. 

And  over  the  wall  of  the  castle  of  Monteton 
— "Five  le  son!" — 

Flutter  the  bloody   fragments  of  song: 
"Vive  le  son  des  canons!" 

This  side  the  wall  there  fights  a  nobleman, 
Rash,  desperate  and  always  in  the  van — • 
209 


OUR  TIME 


Wherefore? — Red  grows  the  earth's  green  ground 

hereafter, 

Bitter,  bitter,  bitter  rings  his  laughter. 
That  side  the  wall  a  filthy  ocean  raves 
In  greedy  and  grasping  and  cowardly  waves — 

This  side,  that  side — who  knew,  when  the  day  was 

spent  ? 

The  wall  lay  low,  then  rose  of  herbs  a  scent; 
The  battlement  a  sunken  tombstone  drear; 
Wailing   women,   the   clouds,   on   the    grass   wept 

tear  on  tear. 

Flickering    death-lights — balconies,    towers    burn 

on — 

Cobblestones  are  the  bier  of  a  Monteton. 
By  the  curs  of  the  gutter  o'ercome  and  wounded 

to  death,  • 
Bitterly,  bitterly  he  laughs  with  last  breath. 

Monteton,  where  is  thy  wall? 
Chalen9on,  where  is  thy  sword? 
Where  is  thy  tower,  Tournefort? 

Our  wall  is  the  judge  whom  the  king  doth  up- 
hold, 

Our  sword  is  the  army  undaunted  and  bold, 
Our  tower  the  church — a-  steep  tower  and  old! 

But  in  Notre  Dame  on  the  altar — horrid  sight! — 
A  naked  woman  performs  a  shameful  rite, 
210 


BORRIES  VON  MUNCHHAUSEN 

A  naked  harlot  bawls  and  screams  and  sings, 
A  wild  and  drunken  roar  through  the  cathedral 
rings. 

And  judges — judges,  too,  are  by, 

As  never  more  vile  saw  the  human  eye! 

A  butcher  with  bloody  apron  presides 

And  listens  to  lies  with  his  fat  ear — besides 

His  helpers:  bullies  and  stable-boys  plain, 

The  accuser  a  thief — ha,  he  can  arraign ! 

And    sentence    on    sentence    the    scythe    whirring 

saith : 
To  death! 

To  death  what  is  calm  and  noble  still, 
To  death,  Cadore,  to  death  d'Anville, 
To  death  what  better  than  they  must  be, 
To  death  Clermont  and  Normandy, 
To  death! 
Sentence  on  sentence  the  scythe  whirring  saith. 

Monteton,  where  is  thy  wall? — 

The  dungeons  of  the  temple  are  deep,  so  deep, 
Deeper  the  captives'  woe  till  death's  last  sleep ! 

Half  rotten  the  basket  where  rests  the  Duchess 

old, 
As  proud  on  this  castaway  seat  as  on  throne  of 

pure  gold, 

About  her  stand  marshal  with  bearing  sure, 
211 


OUR  TIME 


The  old  names  of  the  court,  the  Dames  d'atour, 
With  delicate  bows  and  smiles  free  and  light. 

Past    the    windows    above,    wheels    thunder    with 

might, 

The  pavement  rebounds, 
The  singing  resounds: 
"Five  le  son  des  canons!" 

The  howling  of  dogs  that  have  torn  their  chains 

madly, 

The  roaring  of  those  who  celebrate  badly, 
The  scream  of  the  vulgar  who  long  what  is  noble 

to  blight — 

But  down  there  all  is  quiet  and  light. 
No  forehead  grows  pale,  no  eyelashes  quiver, 
As  their  lives   they  have  lived,  they   meet  death 
with  no  shiver ! 

A  terrible  clock  is  the  prison  gate 

Every  half-hour  with  its  grating  invidious. 

Le   Coucou,   the   hangman,   long-armed    and    hid- 
eous— 

Le  Coucou  steps  out,  who  does  not  wait, 

Who  counts  not  the  years  of  your  young  life — 
nay, 

Not  even  the  months  till  your  wedding-day, 

Comtesse  de  Neuilly! 

212 


BORRIES  VON  MUNCHHAUSEN 

Before  the  Duchess  low  she  bends  her  dainty  knee, 
And  with  her  three  or  four  court  ladies  go, 
And  with  her  the  cavaliers  bow  low; 
With  smiling  lips  she  stands,  and  so: 
"Votre  bras,   Monsieur  le  bourreau !" 

The  way  through  Paris,  the  way  of  blood — 

Red-hot  now  surges  the  song's  wild  flood: 

"Vive  la  carmagnole!" 

But  they  are  not  abashed  at  all, 

They  walk  into  death  without  timid  delay, 

They  are  walking  with  talk  and  with  laughter  gay. 

What  holds  them  together  fast,  they  know: 

The  wall  that  into  the  sky  doth  grow ! 

Though   the  stones  be   falling — the  wall  upward 

strives : 
They  smile  in  their  death  as  they  smiled  in  their 

lives. — 

Monteton,  that  is  our  wall, 
Chalen£on,  that  is  our  sword, 
That  is  our  tower,  Tournefort! 

Mine  Own  Land 

There  gleams  a  plough  in  Thuringian  land, 
Steered  by  a  firm  and  happy  hand, 
Through  mine,  oh  mine  own  ground ! 
And  mine  is  the  plough  and  the  horses  are  mine, 
213 


OUR  TIME 


And  the  silvery  birch  and  the  coal-black  pine, 
The  herd  by  the  forest  edge  found! 

Is  there  in  the  world  a  happier  lot 

Than  this  one  that  I  from  my  ancestors  got? 

At  dawn  I  ride  on  my  round. 

The  gains  of  the  mart  are  cast  off  by  my  hand: 

There  gleams  a  plough  in  Thuringian  land, 

That  goes  through  mine  own  ground! 

Fairy  Tale 

Radiant  eyes  and  cheeks  glowing  bright, 

In  the  sofa  corners,  one  left  and  one  right. 

And  tightly  clenched  each  little  hand. 

"So  the  king's  son  left  the  forest-land 
With  the  princess,  glad  his  way  to  wend, 
And  now  the  story  is  at  an  end!" 

Two  mournful  sighs.     Each  mouth  small  and  red 
Is  closed  a  while  in  silence  dead; 
Two  sentimental  voices  then: 
"Again,  Papa,  please,  please,  again!" 


214 


HUGO  VON  HOFMANNSTHAL 

Born  1874  in  Vienna 

Ballad  of  the  Outer  Life 

And  children  with  deep  eyes  grow  up  and  stray 
All  innocent — lo,  they  grow  up  and  die, 
And  every  man  is  bent  upon  his  way. 

And  bitter  fruits  will  sweeten  by  and  by, 
And,  like  dead  birds,  will  fall  into  the  night, 
And  then  decay  as  on  the  ground  they  lie. 

The  wind  blows  evermore  in  wayward  flight, 
And  ever  many  words  we  say  and  hear, 
Feel  weariness  of  limb  or  young  delight. 

And  streets  run  through  the  grass,  and  far  and 

near 

Are  gloomy  pools  and  trees,  and  torches  burn. 
Some      places      threaten,      some      are      deathlike, 

sere  .  .  . 

Why  are  these  things  diverse — ah,  can  we  learn? 
And  are  there  many  more  than  we  can  say? 
Why  do  we  tremble,  laugh  and  weep  in  turn? 
215 


OUR  TIME 


Of  what  avail  is  all,  and  why  this  play? 

For  we  are  men,  and  lonely  evermore, 

And  wandering  seek  no  goal  upon  the  way. 

What  profits  all  this  seeing  while  we  roam? 
And  yet,  how  much  he  says  who  utters  "night" ! 
For  from  this  word  deep  grief  and  meaning  pour 
Like  heavy  honey  from  the  honeycomb. 


216 


RAINER  MARIA  RILKE 
Born  1875  in  Prag 

Remembrance 

You  wait,  with  memories  drifting, 
For  the  something  that  made  life  blessed, 
The  mighty,  the  rare,  the  uplifting, 
The  awaking  of  stones,  the  rifting 
That  opened  deeps  unguessed. 

The  books  in  your  shelves  are  staring 
Golden  and  brown,  as  you  muse 
On  the  lands  you  crossed  in  your  faring, 
On  pictures,  on  visions  unsparing 
Of  women  you  had  to  lose. 

All  at  once  it  comes  back:  now  you  know! 

Trembling  you  rise,  all  aware 

Of  a  year  once  long  ago 

With  its  grandeur  and  fear  and  prayer. 

People  at  Night 

The  nights  were  not  made   for  crowds,  and  they 

sever 

You  from  your  neighbour,  and  you  shall  never 
217 


OUR  TIME 


Seek  him,  defiantly,  at  night. 
But  if  you  make  your  dark  house  light, 
To  look  on  strangers  in  your  room, 
You  must  reflect — on  whom. 

False  lights  that  on  men's  faces  play 

Distort  them  gruesomely. 

You  look  upon  a  disarray, 

A  world  that  seems  to  reel  and  sway, 

A  waving,  glittering  sea. 

On  foreheads  gleams  a  yellow  shine, 
Where  thoughts  are  chased  away, 
Their  glances  flicker  mad  from  wine, 
And  to  the  words  they  say 
Strange  heavy  gestures  make  reply 
That  struggle  in  the  buzzing  room; 
And  they  say  always  "I"  and  "I," 
And  mean — they  know  not  whom. 

Glimpse  of  a  Childhood 

The  darkness   in  the  room   is   pregnant,  seeming 
To  fold  about  the  boy  who  hides  himself; 
And  when  his  mother  enters,  as  if  dreaming, 
A  glass  is  trembling  on  the  quiet  shelf. 
She  feels  that  now  her  entrance  is  betrayed, 
And     kisses     her     small    boy:       "Oh,     you     are 

there!"  .  .  . 

They  glance  at  the  piano  where  she  played 
218 


RAINER  MARIA  RILKE 


On  many  evenings  the  beloved  air 

That  strangely  on  the  child  its  magic  laid. 

He  sits  quite  still.     With  wondering  eyes  he  sees 
Her  hand,  weighed  down  beneath  the  ring,  and 

slow, 

As  if  it  walked  against  a  gale  through  snow, 
Move  on  the  snow-white  keys. 


Growing  Blind 

She  sat,  like  all  the  rest  of  us,  at  tea. 
It  seemed  at  first  as  if  she  raised  her  cup 
Not  quite  as  all  the  others  held  theirs  up. 
She  smiled:  her  smile  was  pitiful  to  see. 

And  when  we  rose  at  last  with  talk  and  laughter, 
And  through  the  many  rooms  with  idle  pace, 
As  chance  would  have  it,  strolled  from  place  to 

place — 
Then  I  saw  her.     She  slowly  followed  after, 

Restrained,  like  one  who  must  be  calm  and  cool 
Because  she  soon  will  sing  before  a  crowd; 
Upon  her  happy  eyes,  without  a  cloud, 
The  light  fell  from  outside,  as  on  a  pool. 

She  followed  slowly,  hesitating,  shy, 
As  if  some  height  or  bridge  must  still  be  passed, 
And  yet — as  if,  when  that  was  done,  at  last 
She  would  no  longer  walk  her  way,  but  fly. 
219 


OUR  TIME 


Moonlight  Night 

South  German  night,  spread  out  beneath  the  moon, 
And  mild  as  if  all  fairy  tales  were  there; 
The  hours  fall  from  the  steeple  in  a  swoon, 
As  if  into  some  deep  and  hidden  lair. — 
A  murmur  and  a  rustling  round  the  pond, 
Then  silence  hangs  but  empty  in  the  air; 
And  then  a  violin  (God  knows  from  where) 
Awakes  and  says  quite  tranquilly: 

A  blonde — 


The  Knight 

The  knight  rides  forth  in  blackest  mail, 

The  rustling  world  to  meet. 

Out  there  he  finds  all:  the  day  and  the  dale 

And  the  friend  and  the  foe  and  the  castle's  pale, 

And  fair  May  and  fair  maid  and  the  woods  and 
the  grail, 

And  God  Himself  doth  never  fail 

To  stand  upon  the  street. 

But  within  the  knightly  armour  yonder, 
Behind  that  gloomy  wringing, 
Cowers  death  and  has  to  ponder,  ponder : 
When  will  the  blade  come  springing 
Over  the  iron  wall, 
The  stranger,  freedom  bringing, 
That    from   my   hiding-place    shall    call 
220 


RAINER  MARIA  RILKE 


Me  forth,  where  I  for  many  a  day 
Am  waiting,  crouched  and  clinging, 
That  I   may  stretch  out,  once  for  all, 
With  play 
And  singing? 

Maiden  Melancholy 

A  young  knight  comes  into  my  mind, 
As  in  some  old,  old  saying. 

He  came.     Thus  comes  the  storm  to  bind 

You  in  its  mantle,  all  entwined. 

He  went.     Thus  you  are  left  behind 

By  church-bell's  blessing — to  yourself  confined 

When  you  are  praying — 

You  want  to  scream  into  the  calm,  but  find 

You  do  but  gently  weep,  your  face,  inclined, 

Into  your  cool  scarf  laying. 

A  young  knight  comes  into  my  mind. 
In  arms  I  see  him  straying. 

His  smile,  it  was  so  mild  and  kind: 
Like  sheen  of  ivory  enshrined, 
Or  like  a  homesick  longing  blind, 
Like  Christmas  snow  where  dark  ways  wind, 
Like  turquoise  stone  that  sea-pearls  bind, 
Like  moonlight  kind 
On  some  dear  volume  playing. 
221 


OUR  TIME 


Autumn  Day 

Lord:  it  is  time.     The  summer  was  so  grand. 

Upon  sundials  now  Thy  shadow  lay, 

Set  free  Thy  winds  and  send  them  o'er  the  land. 

Command  to  ripen  those  last  fruits  of  Thine; 
And  give  them  two  more  southern  days  of  grace 
To  reach  their  perfect  fullness,  and  then  chase 
The  final  sweetness  into  heavy  wine. 

Who  now  is  homeless,  ne'er  will  build  a  home. 
Who  now  is  lonely,  long  alone  will  stay, 
Will  watch  and  read  and  write  long  letters  gray, 
And  in  the  long  lanes  to  and  fro  will  roam 
All  restless,  as  the  drifting  fall-leaves  stray. 

Autumn 

The  leaves  are  falling,  falling  as  from  far, 
As  if  far  gardens  in  the  skies  were  dying; 
They  fall,  and  ever  seem  to  be  denying. 

And  in  the  night  the  earth,  a  heavy  ball, 
Into  a  starless  solitude  must  fall. 

We  all  are  falling.     My  own  hand  no  less 
Than  all  things  else;  behold,  it  is  in  all. 
Yet  there  is  One  who,  utter  gentleness, 
Holds  all  this  falling  in  His  hands  to  bless. 
222 


RAINER  MARIA  RILKE 


The  Last  Supper 

Here  they  are  gathered,  wondering  and  deranged, 
Round  Him,  who  wisely  doth  Himself  inclose, 
And  who  now  takes  Himself  away,  estranged, 
From  those  who  owned  Him  once,  and  past  them 

flows. 

He  feels  the  ancient  loneliness  to-day 
That  taught  Him  all  His  deepest  acts  of  love ; 
Now  in  the  olive  groves  He  soon  will  rove, 
And  these  who  love  Him  all  will  flee  away. 

To  the  last  supper  table  He  hath  led. 

As  birds  are  frightened  from  a  garden-bed 

By  shots,  so  He  their  hands  forth  from  the  bread 

Doth  frighten  by  His  word:  to  Him  they  flee; 

Then  flutter  round  the  table  in  their  fright 

And  seek  a  passage  from  the  hall.     But  He 

Is  everywhere,  like  dusk  at  fall  of  night. 


From  the  "Book  of  the  Monk's  Life" 


I  am,  Thou  Anxious  One.     Dost  Thou  not  hear 
My  surging  senses  break  'gainst  Thee  alone? 
My    feelings    all,    that    snow-white    wings    have 

grown, 

Fly  round  Thy  visage  in  a  sphere. 
223 


OUR  TIME 


Dost  Thou  not  see  my  soul  now  standing  near, 
Clad  in  a  garb  of  stillness,  facing  Thee? 
Doth  not  my  spring-like  prayer,  as  on  a  tree, 
Grow    ripe    beneath    Thy    glance,    that    mighty 

beam? 

If  Thou  the  Dreamer  art,  I  am  Thy  dream. 
But  when  Thou  art  awake,  I  am  Thy  will, 
And  then  I  gain  a  majesty  sublime 
And  spread  like  star-lit  heavens,  calm  and  still, 
Above  this  odd,  fantastic  city,  Time. 

ii 

All  those  who  live  and  move  away 
From  Time,  that  city  of  distress, 
All  who  their  hands  on  stillness  lay, 
Upon  a  place  where  no  roads  stray, 
That  hardly  doth  a  name  possess — 
Thee,  blessing  high  of  every  day, 
They  name,  and  write  in  gentleness: 

But  prayers  alone  are  real — naught  more; 
Our  hands  are  sanctified — behold  ! 
What  they  have  fashioned  doth  implore: 
If  one  doth  mow,  or  sacred  lore 
Doth  paint — the  very  tools  adore, 
In  toil  a  piety  unfold. 

And  time  in  many  shapes  is  told. 
We  hear  of  time  and  yet  we  do 
224 


RAINER  MARIA  RILKE 


The  everlasting  and  the  old. 

We  know  that  God  us  doth  enfold 

Grand  like  a  beard,  a  garment,  too. 

We  lie  within  His  glory's  gold, 

As  veins  the  hard  basalt  run  through. 


225 


HERMANN  HESSE 
Born  1877  in  Kalw  (Wiirttemberg) 

In  the  Fog 

To  wander  in  fog — how  queer ! 
Lonely  are  bush  and  stone, 
No  tree  sees  the  other  near, 
Each  is  alone. 

Once  my  world  was  full  of  friends, 
When  my  life  still  had  light; 
Now  that  the  fog  descends, 
Not  one  is  in  sight. 

Only  he  is  wise  who  knows 
The  steady  gloom  to  fall 
That  slowly  round  him  grows, 
Severed  from  all. 

To  wander  in  fog — how  queer ! 
Solitude  is  life's  own. 
No  man  sees  the  other  near, 
Each  is  alone. 

226 


HERMANN  HESSE 


Talk  in  a  Gondola 

What  I  dream,  you  ask?     That  yesterday 
We  had  died,  we  two.     In  fair  array — 
Clad  in  white,  our  hair  with  flowers  wound — 
In  our  gondola  we're  seaward  bound. 
Bells  from  yonder  campanile  peal, 
But  the  water  gurgles  round  the  keel, 
Drowns    the    distant    toll    that's    gently    failing. 
Onward,  onward  to  the  sea  we're  sailing, 
Where  the  ships  with  masts  that  tower  high, 
Sombre  shadows,  rest  against  the  sky, 
Where  on  fishing-boats  there  gleam  the  moist, 
Deep-stained  red  and  yellow  sails  they  hoist, 
Where  the  roaring  mighty  waves  are  swelling, 
Where  the  sailors  lurid  tales  are  telling. 
Through  a  gate  of  bluest  water,  deeply 
Downward  now  our  boat  is  gliding  steeply. 
In  the  depths  we  find  a  widening  range 
Filled  with  many  trees  of  coral  strange, 
Where  in  lustrous  shells  that  hidden  gleam 
Pale  gigantic  pearls  alluring  beam. 
Silvery  fishes  pass  us,  glistening,  shy, 
Leaving  tinted  trails  as  they  flit  by, 
In  whose  furrows  other  fish  instead 
Gleam  with  slender  tails  of  golden  red. 
At  the  bottom,   fathoms  deeps,  we  dream: 
As  if  bells  were  calling,  it  will  seem, 
Now  and  then,  as  if  from  some  far  land 
227 


OUR  TIME 


Winds  sang  songs  we  cannot  understand, 
Songs  of  narrow  streets  we  long  ago 
Left  behind,  of  things  we  used  to  know — 
Songs  so  far,  far  off  about  the  ways 
That  we  trod  in  long  forgotten  days. 
And  with  wonder  we'll  remember  slowly 
Now  a  street,  now  some  cathedral  holy, 
Or  the  shouting  of  a  gondolier — 
Many  names  that  once  we  used  to  hear. 
Smiling  then,  as  children  smile  in  sleep, 
We  our  silent  lips  still  moving  keep, 
And  the  word  will,  ere  it  spoken  seems, 
Fall  into  oblivion,  death  in  dreams. 
Over  us  the  mighty  vessels  float, 
Sails  are  bright  on  many  a  sombre  boat, 
Snow-white  birds  in  gleaming  sunshine  fly, 
Glist'ning  nets  upon  the  water  lie; 
Spanning  all,  with  arches  high  and  true 
Glows  the  heavens'  vault  of  sunlit  blue. 


228 


ALFRED   WALTER   VON   HEYMEL 
Born  1878  in  Dresden.    Died  1914  in  the  war 

Song  of  an  Enamoured  Prince 

For  a  few  hours  of  thy  charming  discourse 

I  have  now  ridden  seven  moons. 

Timid  delay  was  unknown  to  my  horse, 

Fear  to  my  servants.     Over  the  dunes, 

Through  the  forests  and  the  dark 

We  have  struggled  painfully. 

Ere  the  dawn  awoke  the  lark, 

We  would  sing  of  thee,  of  thee. 

Greetings  to  thee  my  steeds  would  neigh; 

I  sang  my  longing,  lovelorn  lay. 

My  men  would  all  take  up  my  tune, 

And  so  we  roused  the  sunlight  soon — 

The  sun  that  followed  on  our  way, 

To  thee,  thou  sun,  my  sunshine  gay. 

And  I  have  reached  thee  now  at  last: 
I  kiss  and  kiss  thy  hand.     My  heart 
Is  beating  lightly  and  so  fast, 
As  if  it  flew,  an  aimless  dart! 
To-day  I  may  be  thy  favoured  knight; 
That  gives  me  joy  for  all  time  to  come. 
229 


OUR  TIME 


The  horses  are  ready  at  fall  of  night. 
A  passing  farewell — and  so  we  ride  home, 
For  seven  moons;  and  every  day 
My  bliss  must  be  more  far  away. — 
Nay,  thou  within  my  heart  shalt  be, 
For  I  am  so  in  love  with  thee! 


230 


AGNES  MIEGEL 
Born   1879  in  Konigsberg 

The  Fair  Agnete 

When  Sir  Ulrich's  widow  in  church  knelt  to  pray, 
From  the  church  yard  toward  her  floated  a  lay. 
The  organ  on  high  did  cease  to  sound, 
The  priests  and  the  boys  all  stood  spellbound; 
The   congregation  hearkened,  old  man,  child  and 

bride 

To  singing  like  a  nightingale's  so  fair,  outside: 
"Dear  mother,  in  the  church  where  the  sexton's 

bell  rings, 
Dear    mother,    hark    outside   how   your    daughter 

sings ! 

For  I  cannot  come  to  you  in  the  church — ah,  nay, 
Before  the  shrine  of  Mary  I  cannot  kneel  to  pray, 
For  I  have  lost  salvation  in  everlasting  time, 
For   I   wedded  the   waterman   with   all  his   black, 

black  slime. 
My   children — they   play   in   the   lake  with   fishes 

fleet, 
They  have  fins   on  their  hands   and  fins  on  their 

feet, 

Their  little  pearly  frocks  no  sunlight  ever  dries, 
231 


OUR  TIME 


Not  death  nor  yet  a  dream  can  close  my  children's 

eyes. — 

Dear  mother,  oh,  I  beg  of  thee, 
Lovingly,  longingly: 
Wilt  thou  and  all  thy  servants  pray 
For  my  green-haired  water-sprites  alway, 
Will  ye  pray  to  the  saints  and  to  our  Lady  kind, 
By  every  church  and  every  cross  that  on  the  fields 

ye  find! 

Dearest  mother,  I  beseech  thee  so — 
Every  seven  years  I  may  hither  go — 
Unto  the  good  priest  tell, 
The  church  door  he  shall  open  well — 
That  I  may  see  the  candle-light 
And  see  the  golden  monstrance  bright, 
That  my  little  children  may  be  told 
How  the  gleam  of  the  Cup  is  like  sunlight  gold !" 

The  organ  pealed  when  the  voice  sang  no  more, 
And  then  they  opened  wide  the  door — 
And  while  they  all  inside  high  mass  were  keep- 
ing, 
A  wave  all  white,  so  white,  outside  was  leaping. 


232 


H.    ZUCKERMANN 

Austrian  Cavalry  Song 
1914 

There  in  the  meadow-land 
Two  jackdaws  cry — 
Is  it  on  Danube's  strand 
I'll  have  to  lie? 
Or  in  a  Polish  grave? 
Before  my  soul  shall  fly, 
I'll  fight  a  rider  brave. 

There  on  the  field  I  see 

Two  ravens  scurry. 

Shall  I  the  first  one  be 

Whom  they  must  bury? 

What's  that  to  me ! 

Many  hundred  thousands  hurry 

In  Austria's  cavalry. 

There  in  the  evening  breath 
Hover  two  crows: 
When  comes  the  reaper  Death 
Who  mows  and  mows? 
We're  not  afraid! 
If  but  our  banner  blows 
Over  Belgrade ! 
233 


EEINHOLD  S.,  A  SCHOOLBOY 
Born  1903 

For  Us! 
1915 

Far,  far  in  the  east  is  a  gaping  grave, 
There  they  bury  thousands  of  soldiers  brave 
For  us ! 

In  the  west  the  humble  crosses  show 
Where  they  lie  dumb  in  many  a  row 
For  us! 

Where  storms  are  blowing  over  the  sea, 
They  gave  their  lives  so  willingly 
For  us! 

They  gave  their  blood,  their  life's  desire, 
They  gave  it  all  with  sacred  fire 
For  us! 

And  we?     We  can  but  weep  and  pray 
For  those  who  bloody  and  trodden  lay 
For  us ! 

There  is  no  word,  no  way  to  thank 
All  those  who  suffered,  those  who  sank 
For  us! 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 

PAGE 

A   Day  Spent   Falke  182 

A  Lovely  Rose Anonymous  17 

Ah,  When  He  Is  Mine Novalis  87 

Alderking,  The  Goethe  60 

As  Many  as  Sand-grains  in  the  Sea . . . .  A  nonymous  21 

Austrian  Cavalry  Song Zuckermann  233 

Autumn  Day   Rilke  222 

Autumn    Rilke  222 

Ballad   of  the   Wall Milnchhausen  209 

Ballad  of  the  Outer  Life Hofmannsthal  215 

Bell,  The  Spitteler  179 

Blessed  Be  the  Hour Vogelweide  5 

Blind  and  the  Lame,  The Gellert  36 

Bridge  by  the  Tay,  The Fontane  152 

But  the  Sun  Is  Ever  Youthful Meyer  160 

Chidher   Riickert  111 

Child's  Prayer Hensel  123 

City,  The   Storm  147 

Christmas  in  Ajaccio Meyer  161 

Dead  Child,  The Meyer  162 

Dear  Children,  Soon  I'll  Come  Again Goethe  51 

Do  Thou  Speak  Now Meyer  160 

Duration  of  Love,  The Freiligrath  143 

Early  Graves,  The Klopstock  38 

Ecstasy   Riickert  111 

Elisabeth's  Song    Storm  149 

Enough    Bierbaum  199 

Evening  Song    Claudius  39 

Fair  Agnete,  The Miegel  231 

[235] 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


PAGE 

Father,  I  Call  Thee! Korner  115 

Fisher,  The Goethe  59 

Fairy  Tale   Miinchhausen  209 

Fir-tree  Heine  125 

Forest  Lake,  The Leuthold  165 

Forsaken   Maiden,   The Morike  139 

For  Us ! Reinhold  234 

Found    Goethe  57 

Free  Art   Uhland  105 

Freedom  Schenkendorf  91 

From  "A  Dream  of  Love"   Vogelweide  7 

From  an  Oppressed  Heart Dehmel  192 

From  Heaven  High Luther  12 

From  the  "Book  of  the  Monk's  Life"  I Rilke  223 

From  the  "Book  of  the  Monk's  Life"  II Rilke  223 

From  Woman's  Love  and  Life  I Chamisso  89 

From  Woman's  Love  and  Life  II Chamisso  90 

German  Land  Above  All  Others. Von  Drostehulshoff  120 

Girls  Singing  Von  Soar  166 

Give  Me  Welcome  AH  with  Cheer Vogelweide  8 

Glimpse  of  Childhood Rilke  218 

Growing   Blind    Rilke  219 

Go   Out,  My  Heart Gebhardt  23 

Good  Comrade,  The Uhland  94 

Gretchen's  Song   Goethe  54 

Gretchen    Goethe  56 

Harper,  The Goethe  52 

Harvest  Song Catholic  Church  Song  28 

Heath,  The   Storm  47 

Hostess'  Daughter,  The Uhland  94 

I  Am  Thine Anonymous  3 

I  Dreamed  a  Princess  Came  to  Me Heine  124 

I  Hear  a  Sickle  Rustling Anonymous  17 

I  Bear  No  Anger Heine  126 

In  a  Cool  Green  Valley Eichendorff  107 

[236] 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


In  the  Express  Train Fulda  186 

In  the  Fog Hesse  226 

In   the   Wood Storm  148 

Innsbruck,  I  Must  Be  Leaving Anonymous  20 

It  Has  Been  Willed  in  God's  Decree, 

Feuchtersleben  140 

King  Charles'  Voyage Uhland  101 

King  of  Thule,  The Goethe  53 

Knight,   The Rilke  220 

Lamb  of  God Decius  16 

Last   Greeting,  The Eichendorff  108 

Last  Supper,  The Rilke  223 

Last  Words   Droste-Hiilshoff  120 

Letters  From  the  Beloved Jensen  167 

Like  One  of  These  Was  He Holz  188 

Longing   Eichendorff  107 

Longing  for  Spring Vogelweide  5 

Loreley,   The Heine  127 

Lotos   Flower,   The Heine  125 

Maiden  Melancholy Rilke  217 

Many  a  Night Dehmel  193 

Marsh    Song Lenau  133 

Midnight    Huch  197 

Mignon    Goethe  49 

Mine  Own  Land Munchhausen  209 

Minstrel's    Curse Uhland  96 

Moonlight  Night   Rilke  220 

Morning  Glow Hauff  131 

Nekropolis   Kurz  184 

Now  Let  Us  All  Thank  God Rinckart  22 

Nun,    The Uhland  95 

Oh,  Germany !    Shonaich-Carolath  180 

Old  Heidelberg  Scheffel  164 

On  the  Death  of  a  Child Terberg  190 

On  the  Death  of  My  Child Eichendorff  107 

[237] 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


On  Wings  of  Song Heine  126 

Parting  and  Return Liliencron  172 

People  at  Night Rilke  217 

Postillion,  The Lenau  133 

Praise  the  Lord Neander  34 

Prologue  to  "May  Beetle's  Comedy" Widmann  168 

Recognition,  The Vogl  137 

Remembrance Rilke  217 

Rock  with  Runes,  The Heine  126 

Rose  Complained,  The Bodenstedt  151 

Say,  How  Many  Stars  are  Glowing Hey  114 

Schiller's  Burial Meyer  162 

Sea  Farm,  The Von  Strauss  und  Torney  204 

Shepherd's  Day,  The George  200 

Singer,   The Goethe  62 

Sir  Ribbeck  of  Ribbeck Fontane  152 

Song  for  All Dehmal  195 

Song  of  the  Bell,  The Schiller  68 

Song  of  the  Blue  Thrush Widmann  168 

Song  of  an  Enamoured  Prince Heymel  229 

Song  of  the  Evening Keller  157 

Song  of  the  Harper Goethe  52 

Song  of  Praise Luther  14 

Sonnet    Platen  119 

Sonnet  on  the  Transitoriness  of  Life Gryphius  30 

Suabian  Legend Uhland  103 

Summer  Night Keller  158 

Swiss,  The Alsatian  Soldier  Song  45 

Tailor  in  Hell,  The Humorous  Ballad  42 

Talk  in  a  Gondola Hesse  226 

The  Falcon   Kiirenberg  1 1 

The    Oracle Vogelweide  6 

There  Is  a  House  in  Heaven Spervogel  4 

Thou  Seemest  Like  a  Flower Heine  124 

To  the  Face  of  the  Lord  Jesus Gebhardt  23 

[238] 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


PAGE 

To  a  Deceased Storm  150 

To  the  Moon Goethe  49 

Two  Grenadiers Heine  128 

Under  the  Linden-tree Vogelweide  7 

Union  Song Arndt  85 

Vigil,    The George  200 

Vineta    Muller  117 

Voice  in  Darkness Dehmel  192 

Vow Silesiu*  31 

Wanderer's  Night  Songs,  I  and  II Goethe  50 

Wanderer's  Joy Giebel  145 

War  and  Peace Liliencron  173 

Wave  Dance  Song Dehmel  194 

Were  I  a  Little  Bird Folk  Song  41 

Wild   Rose Goethe  58 

Winter  Night Keller  158 

Wizard's  Apprentice Goethe  63 

Workman,  The Dehmel  195 

Would  I  Were  a  Falcon  Wild Popular  Ballad  18 


[239] 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 

PAGE 

Arndt,  Ernest  Moritz 85 

Bierbaum,  Otto  Julius 199 

Bodenstedt,   Friedrich  von 151 

Chamisso,  Adalbert  von 89 

Claudius,  Matthias 39 

Decius,  Nikolaus 16 

Dehmel,  Richard 192-195 

Droste-Hiilshoff,  Annette  von 120 

Eichendorff,  Joseph  von 107-109 

Falke,    Gustav 182 

Fallersleben,  Heinrich  Hoffmann  von 121 

Feuchtersleben,  Ernst  von 140 

Fontane,    Theodor 152, 153 

Freiligrath,    Ferdinand 143 

Fulda,  Ludwig 186 

Geibel,   Emanuel 145, 146 

Gellert,  Christian  Furchtegott 36 

George,   Stefan 200-202 

Gerhardt,   Paulus 23-25 

Goethe,  Johahn  Wolfgang  von 49-63 

Gryphius    30 

Hauff,  Wilhelm 131 

Heine,    Heinrich 124-128 

Hensel,  Luise 123 

Hesse,  Hermann » 226, 227 

Hey,  Wilhelm 114 

Heymal,  Alfred  Walter  von 229 

Hof mannsthal,   Hugo   von 215 

Holz,  Arno 188 

240 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


PAGE 

Huch,  Ricarda 197 

Jensen,    Wilhelm 167 

Keller,    Gottfried 157, 158 

Klopstock,  Friedrich  Gottlob 38 

Kb'rner,  Theodor 115 

Kiirenberg,  von 11 

Kurz,  Isolde 184 

Lenau,    Xikolaus 133 

Leuthold,  Heinrich 165 

Liliencron,  Detlev   von 172, 173 

Luther,   Martin 12-14 

Meyer,   Konrad   Ferdinand 160-162 

Miegel,   Agnes 231 

Morike,    Eduard 139 

Miiller,   Wilhelm 117 

Miinchhausen,  Borries,  Freiherr  von 209-214 

Xeander,    Joachim 34 

Xovalis     87 

Platen,  August,  Graf  von 119 

Reinhold,   S 234 

Rilke,  Rainer  Maria 217-224 

Rinckart,  Martin 22 

Riickert,    Friedrich Ill 

Saar,  Ferdinand  von 166 

Scheffel,  Joseph  Victor  von 164 

Schenkendorf.   Max   von 91 

Schiller,    Friedrich   von 68 

Shonaich-Carolath,   Prince   Emil  von 180 

Silesius,  Angelus 31 

Spervogel 4 

Spitteler,  Carl 179 

Storm,    Theodor 147-150 

Strauss  und  Torney,  Lulu  von 204 

Terberg,  Hugo 190 

Uhland,  Ludwig 94-105 

241 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


PAGE 

Vogelwcide,  Walter  von   der 5-8 

Vogl,  Johann  Nepomuk 137 

Widmann,  Joseph  Victor 168, 169 

Zuckermann,    H 233 

(1) 


242 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


r-/ 


S  ANGELES 

f  two  A  r*w 


par 

*    001302333 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Ot . 


